“I’m not here because of your artisanal puddle.”
“Oh?”
He stepped closer. Close enough to smell booze on her breath. He leaned in and whispered for her ears only. “I woke up to ninety-three voicemails from senior citizens about myfirm handshake. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you had nothing to do with that.”
She laughed, low and satisfied. “Darling, I wasn’t aware we were on speaking terms.”
Chapter 43
Frankie couldn’t believe Marcus had followed her into town. She hadn’t planned on him chasing her. She’d planned on stopping at the coffee shop, saying her goodbyes, then strutting out in a cloud of sweet revenge, bridges intact if a little singed at the edges.
Now here he was, looking exhausted and angry and something she couldn’t pin down.
“Was there something else you needed?” she asked with a smirk.
He braced a hand on the lamppost and leaned in, close enough for her to catch the scent of soap and sun-dried mud. Like a man about to file a strongly worded complaint with the HOA.
“If I had to guess,” he said, voice frayed with exasperation, “you’re the one who put my real number in a swinger ad for senior citizens.”
Frankie pressed her palm to her chest, eyes wide in mock horror. “I hear you’re going by Maximilian ‘The Hammer’ Grant now.”
His lips twitched. Did he find this funny? “That’s quite the mouthful.”
She studied her nails with faux disinterest. “According to Harriet, who heard from Vivian, men with small—well, you know—usually overcompensate with their stage names.”
Ziggy chose that moment to swing out of his jeep, giving Marcus a long, appreciative once-over. “If I were thirty years older and two martinis in, I’d be lighting a candle to Saint Hammer.”
“Me too!” someone called.
“I did!” another confessed, sparking a ripple of laughter through the square.
Frankie repressed the urge to giggle. She wasn’t even sure she could giggle, but damn it, she liked these people with their ridiculous view on life.
Marcus turned to the crowd. “Could someone please spread the word? The ad was a joke. There’s only one woman I’m interested in, and she’s standing right here. She’s furious with me, and for good reason. I ditched her at the festival. That was a shitty move on my part.”
Frankie froze. What the hell was he doing? Why wasn’t he lashing out? Why wasn’t he furious like he was supposed to be?
“Stop it,” she hissed. “You’re not interested in me, and you damn well know it.”
He dipped close, voice so soft only she could hear. “It’s called crisis control.”
She opened her mouth to tell him she forbade him from controlling the crisis, but he didn’t give her the chance. He hauled her against his chest, stealing herbreath, her fury, and possibly a small portion of her sanity with the heat in his eyes.
His mouth brushed her ear. “I’m protecting my brothers.” Then his lips crushed hers.
Don’t. Kiss. Him. Back.Damn it all. Why were her lips moving?
His were moving with the sole purpose of controlling the narrative.
But hers? Pure traitors.
Her foot, at least, was loyal. She lifted it and drove the heel of her stiletto into the buttery leather of his loafer.
He grunted and shifted his stance.
She opened her mouth to laugh, and the bastard used the opportunity to sweep his tongue into her mouth.
When he finally pulled back, wearing a smug smile that deserved its own slap, she gave him one. Not Marcus. Mr. Uptight.
