“A couple of things,” Isabella said. “One—I like this version of you. You’re still lethal, just…easier to sip.”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” Frankie replied, tone dry enough to exfoliate. “And the second?”
“I noticed you haven’t returned the pink Birkin. I can have my assistant collect it if you like.”
Frankie’s stomach dipped hard. Like she’d stepped straight into a memory and landed on her pride.
The Birkin was still in her office. The bag Marcus had saved the day she’d arrived in Gi Gi’s Crossing and toppled into a mud puddle. The one he had placed on her front porch the night of the festival. It wasn’t just a bag. It was a breadcrumb trail back to a story she had been trying very hard not to reread.
She had returned the wigs. The clothes. Everything but the pink Birkin. She hadn’t even emptied it yet.
It felt like her last connection to Marcus, to what might have been if he hadn’t turned out to be Mr. Uptight.
Part of her wanted to buy it. Keep it. Hoard the heartache like a limited-edition souvenir. But even she knew that was emotional hoarding disguised as sentiment.
It was time to sever that final string loosely binding them.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said quietly. “I’ll have Jane return it.”
Frankie started to turn away but paused. “And Isabella?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For helping me build Francesca B. She was a huge hit…until she wasn’t.” Truth was the town hadn’t cared nearly as much as Frankie expected. Most of them had just shrugged. In Gi Gi’s Crossing, everyone had a secret. The only real crime was getting caught without a good cover story.
Isabella’s expression softened. “It’s too bad that damn reporter outed you on her show.”
“I handled her.” Technically, Ms. Birdie had, but Frankie wasn’t giving her that win. She hadn’t forgiven her for not telling her Marcus was Mr. Uptight.
“The old you,” Isabella said, “would have assumed I arranged the whole thing to keep you from returning as editor-in-chief.”
Frankie’s lips curved. “It crossed my mind, but then I remembered you’re not clever enough to pull that off.”
Isabella laughed. “We should get drinks. To celebrate Frankie 2.0. I’ve missed the camaraderie we had when I was your intern.”
Frankie nodded. “I’d like that.”
It wasn’t lost on her that they’d made up with no apologies required.
And for the first time, she wondered, just for a second, if that could happen with Marcus too.
She hated the thought.
Mostly because she wasn’t sure if it meant she wanted to forgive him.
Or wanted a reason not to.
Either way, forgiveness was off the table. At best, she might consider a flash sale on indifference…see earlier footnote on wrinkle prevention.
Chapter 45
Frankie paced behind her glass-topped desk atNaked Runway, the borrowed Birkin perched on the edge. “I’d say it’s not you, it’s me. But let’s be honest. It’s Marcus.” She dragged it closer and reached inside.
Her fingers closed around a box of condoms. Her lips twitched. Marcus, smug and cocky, had once told her not to be afraid of extra-large because he liked room to think. She had paid him back by listing him as extra-small in the swinger ad. She tossed the box into a drawer. “Arrogant bastard.”
Next came the lipstick vibrator. She rolled it between her fingers. “With Marcus in my bed, you weren’t exactly needed. With Marcus gone… I should probably refresh your batteries.” Anger flared. She dumped it in the trash. No way was Marcus getting encore performances in her fantasies.
Her hand brushed glass. She pulled out a bottle of hot sauce, the label worn soft. She gave a weak laugh. “Some people have emotional support animals. I have an emotional support condiment.”
