A ripple of “Ooof” rolled through the crowd.
Something like hope flickered across his face. “Does that mean you’ll give me a next time?”
“No. No it doesn’t.” Was he for real? “I’m not one of your damn real estate rehab projects eager for you to facelift my flaws away so that I’m truly worthy of your heart. That’s not romantic.” Yet, it was probably the only kind of love she’d ever receive. Rehab love. Fixer-upper love. Because she wasn’t lovable. Hell, she was barely likable. Which meant his declaration, caveat and all, was bullshit, and he knew it was bullshit, and that was why he’d needed the qualifier.
A mask of nonchalance slid into place. He pulled out his sunglasses and slipped them on. “Understood.” He started to turn, then looked back. “For the record,” he said, “you should have led with the crumbling of my heart in your hands as your go-to revenge. It hurts like hell.”
“Wow, you’re good.” She slow clapped, every clap a dagger. “You’re really good.”
He cocked his head.
“You declare false love, then tell me how much it hurts that I don’t love you back, all so I’ll feel guilty. And in your convoluted male brain, you think a guiltyFrankie will let you off the hook and scrap revenge part two. Well, here’s a newsflash.” She pivoted toward the crowd, because this needed an audience. “If I ever give a man my heart, you can safely bet the recipient is Absolutely Not Him.” She pointed straight at Mr. Uptight. The man who had exiled her, lied to her, and torched her career.
Why in God’s name would she ever love him?
He removed his glasses and let his gaze flick to the Birkin on her shoulder. “Thanks,” he said softly, “for not telling everyone what you know.”
Of course she hadn’t told them Gi Gi was his mother. That wasn’t her style.
“What? What didn’t you tell us?” someone called.
“He has a fetish for being spanked,” Frankie deadpanned.
He gave one small nod, then turned and stalked toward the glitter-covered golf cart.
Something in her chest squeezed. Tight and stupid and entirely undeserved.
She crushed it flat as she watched the cart turn the corner, head out of town, and vanish.
And then she laughed.
It wasn’t sweet or victorious or safe.
It was raw, crooked, sharp as hell at the edges.
If a little sadness hitched a ride at the end…well, that couldn’t be helped.
Not all victories were sweet.
She drew in a breath and squared her shoulders.
Revenge trumps love.
That’s just basic emotional hygiene.
Chapter 44
Frankie Peterson stood at the head of the glass conference room inNaked Runway, her editorial team arrayed around the long white marble table.
She had been back for a week. In that time, she had finishedHow to Make Friends (Even If You’re a Bit of an Asshole)and had sent her old therapist forget me not flowers with a note: You didn’t suck as a therapist.
“It’s time to begin,” Jane, her assistant, said before locking the door so late comers couldn’t come in.
Something traitorous fluttered in Frankie’s chest, suspiciously close to nerves.Present the new me? Embrace the old me? How can I lead when I don’t even know who I am anymore?
This was the first pitch meeting since her exile.
Nerves weren’t weakness. They just meant you cared enough to value opinions. Which, in Frankie’s book, absolutely qualified as weakness.
