Unmistakably Frankie.
It hit him like a sucker punch to the ribs. She wanted to talk. Not text. Not lob insults from across a crowded room. Meet.
Every ounce of his soul begged him to go to her office right then, haul her into his arms, and start the conversation sooner rather than later. He ignored the instinct. This was her grand gesture, and she’d earned the right to set the rules.
He’d be at that coffee shop before three, waiting like a man who’d already decided the conversation wouldn’t end with goodbye.
They had a lot to work through. He wouldn’t ask forforgiveness, and not because he feared her apologies-are-for-the-lily-liveredwrath, but because he didn’t deserve it. This was their chance to stop circling each other and finally see what was waiting if neither of them flinched.
That was the plan.
Until social media got involved, and the story went viral.
By nightfall, the billboard was everywhere. Social feeds. News alerts. Podcasts with titles likeUptight RomanceandFP Unmasked.
And then Carter—relentless, razor-sharp Carter—was on TV. Her eyes gleamed as she stood beneath the billboard.
“A cryptic message appeared in Times Square tonight,” she announced. “Addressed only to ‘Mr. Uptight’ and signed ‘FP.’ Who are they? Lovers? Rivals? Something in between? Reporters across the city are on alert, watching for clues.”
Marcus stared at the screen, stomach sinking. To him, it was fucking obvious FP stood for Frankie Peterson. At what point would the thought flick across Carter’s radar? And when it did, would she dismiss it as a coincidence, or cover her bases and put a tail on Frankie?
If it were him, he’d do exactly that. Shadow her and stake out every damn coffee shop in Manhattan tomorrow at three, hoping to hit jackpot.
The thought chilled him.
Podcasters. Tabloids. Gossip accounts. Every outlet would be circling, desperate to be the first to unmask Mr. Uptight and FP.
And if his face ended up on the evening news?
It wouldn’t just expose him. It would expose his brothers. And if the wrong people were still watching—even after all these years—it might put anyone they cared about in the crosshairs, too.
He sat with that, examining every angle. Any contact with Frankie now, secretive or not, risked dragging her into his danger.Walls have ears.And now the whole damn world had eyes.
Would those who wished harm to the DeLuca brothers harm an innocent? In a fucking heartbeat. In the world he’d been born into, revenge had no morals.
So he chose the only move that wouldn’t put a target on her forehead.
He stayed away. Instead, he got a room at a hotel across the street from the coffee shop. A room with a clear view.
He told himself watching was enough. That this was strength, not weakness.
Day One: She appeared just before three, disguised like a moody Parisian, beret tilted just so, sunglasses swallowing half her face. She lingered near the hot dog cart, scanning faces, pretending to scroll. Waiting.
For him.
Marcus’s chest squeezed so tightly he had to brace a hand against the wall.
He saw the way her posture shifted as the minutes ticked by. Hope straightened her spine. Doubt tightened her shoulders. Disappointment softened her.
She waited thirty minutes before leaving, head high but steps too quick.
And Marcus—who’d once been taught to leave a town in the dead of night without looking back—had never wanted to run toward someone more.
Day Two: She came like an Italian film star this time. Tortoiseshell sunglasses. Pretzel in hand. He almost smiled at the defiance of it. But behind the shades, he imagined her eyes scanning faces. Looking for him.
He pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the hotel window. The city blurred.
Somewhere beneath the ache was something colder. Older.
