The manor did have a golf cart on order. “Unfortunately, the rent doesn’t cover such amenities.”
“I’d be happy to pay for the upgrade.”
“I’ll check with the owner, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. He’s notorious for taking weeks to get back to me on any questions I might have. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to check the cottage. Assess the damage so I’ll know how much to charge you for the repair. In the meantime, head back up to the manor and keep the dinner warm until I return.”
Her brows lifted, and her hands flew to her hips. “Oh. Me? Watch dinner? Gosh, I’ve never been asked to do that. It’s just like something out of one of those delectable dude ranch movies where the guests must work for their dinner. How absolutely…charming. I will certainly try.”
“All you need to do is turn the oven on low and pop the skillet in,” he said dryly. “Whatever you do, if you’re fond of your eyebrows, don’t attempt to start one of the burners.”
She let out a high, tinkling laugh. “Marcus, you’re too funny.”
He stepped around her to head to the cottage.
“Oh. I just had a delicious thought. Do you suppose I could deduct the chore from my rent? I mean, it only seems fair considering your plan to charge me for defending myself from a potential cottage intruder.”
He wiped the grin from his face before glancing back at her. Needling her might become his favorite new pastime. “Go, do your best. I’ll handle the cottage.”
Frankie let out a tiny Francesca-ish sigh, turned on her heel, and swished her skirts as she shuffled away.
When Marcus returned to the manor twenty minutes later, he knew something was wrong before he even reached the kitchen. The smell of burnt food hit him like a wall. Acrid, smoky, and a clear sign of culinary doom.
He stepped inside and froze.
Frankie was standing by the counter, arms crossed, holding her wig like it was a fallen comrade. Her expression thunderous.
“What happened?” he asked, though the answer was all around them. Dinner had been dumped in the sink. Cheese had congealed at odd angles, scrambled eggs were scorched into a crisp shell, and what remained of the tater tots were fused to the bottom of the skillet like fossilized regrets.
She didn’t answer. She lifted the wig a few inches higher with theatrical reverence. “She had bangs,Marcus. Beautiful, face-framing, whisper-soft bangs. One minute they were tickling my brows like a Chanel butterfly kiss, and the next…” She flipped the wig around so he could see the melted stub where the fringe used to be. “Gone. Just…gone. Cerise didn’t deserve this.”
He blinked. “Cerise?”
“She was my dinner wig,” Frankie said stiffly. “The one with just the right bounce to suggest approachable. Now she looks like a heat-damaged poodle on probation.”
Marcus glanced toward the stove. “What did you set the oven on?”
“Broil.”
He groaned.
“I only peeked inside for one second to check the skillet and poof. Cerise made the ultimate sacrifice. She went from debutante to discount Halloween costume.”
He glanced again at the mess in the sink. “Those were the last of the eggs.”
She gasped. “The eggs? Are you seriously mourning the eggs right now while I’m holding a fallen icon in my hands?”
“The eggs would have nourished us,” he said carefully. “Cerise was decorative. Not meaningful in any real sense.”
Frankie narrowed her eyes. “And yet, meaningfully real or not, she was still more emotionally available than most men I’ve dated.”
Heran a hand down his face and grabbed the keys. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To the diner. We have to eat.”
“We’ll need to stop by the cottage so I can retrieve Sugarplum,” Frankie said, sniffing as she gently scooped Cerise into her handbag.
“Sugarplum?”
