“Your humor is without comparison,” she muttered, this time too softly to be heard. Francesca wouldn’t say that sort of thing out loud.
From the other side of the door came Marcus’s voice. “You’re okay in there, right? A one-hour shower’s normal for someone like you?”
Respond the way Francesca would respond.
“Darling, normal is anything but what I’ve experienced at your brutish hands.”
“Brutish, huh?”
“But I’ve decided to forgive and forget.”
Pleased with her wit, she waited for his next volley. It didn’t come, which left too much time to think about the way her skin had tingled from the press of his chest.
Clearly not from attraction.
Obviously, it had been annoyance.
Annoyance at being manhandled and barked at like a helpless damsel.
Still, beneath that irritation, something else had stirred when he’d lifted her out of the mud.
Not gratitude. Frankie Peterson didn’t do gratitude.
But something dangerously close.
And that scared the hell out of her.
What if by pretending to be Francesca B, she started feeling things she’d spent a lifetime avoiding? If she began swooning over strong arms and chivalry, Frankie could very well end up making the same mistakes her mother had.
Mistakes like falling for an asshole. An abusive man who’d abandoned his wife of ten years and left her to raise their daughter in poverty. All he’d had to do was change his name and disappear.
Frankie still remembered her mom scraping together what little money they had to hire an investigator. To track him. To force him to pay the child support he never did. The memory made her stomach twist. Not with anger toward her mom, but toward Mr. Uptight. Because this? This was his fault.
He was the reason she was at risk of repeating history.
And once she uncovered his identity, she would ruin him slowly. Painfully. Creatively.
Another knock echoed from the bathroom door.
“If you’re not out in five minutes, I’m coming in.”
Frankie straightened, reached for the robe, then changed her mind.
That was a Frankie move.
Francesca B wouldn’t retreat behind terry cloth. She’d command the room.
Grabbing the towel, she dried off, wrapped it around her chest, cinched it under her arms, then plucked the wig from its drying hook. With a deep breath and a performance-ready smile, she flung open the door.
Marcus’s gaze dropped, swept back up.
“Something wrong with the robe?” he asked.
“It’s the wrong shade for my eyes,” she replied breezily.
“I see.” He glanced past her. “Well, the shower seems to be in working order.”
Frankie tilted her head and let out a soft, melodic laugh. It might’ve sounded flirtatious if it weren’t for the healthy layer of rust clinging to the edges. “Barely. It’s truly a relic.” She brushed a damp curl behind her ear. “But I made do. I’m adaptable like that.”
