“She’s the one with lavender tips and an attitude problem. Thinks dinner should always involve wine and live jazz. Cerise never trusted her.” Frankie gave the bag a solemn shake. “But even Cerise would’ve insisted I look good while grieving.”
“Why all the wigs? What’s wrong with your natural hair?”
She removed the netting, turned her head upside down, and fluffed it, then flipped it back up as she straightened.
His groin tightened. My God, she had a gorgeous head of blonde hair.
“I’ve been told my locks are lethal to a man’s heart. I wear the wigs to prevent leaving a string of broken men in my wake.”
He swallowed hard. “Let’s go get Sugarplum.”
Chapter 6
The diner’s lighting gave Frankie a headache. Too bright. Too unforgiving. It made the peeling wallpaper and scuffed linoleum impossible to ignore. Which wouldn’t have been a problem if it hadn’t dragged her straight back to childhood, all sticky booths, cheap coffee, and long hours waiting on a mother with too many jobs and never enough time.
A mother who never took the easy road. Who refused to ask her parents for help or admit she was drowning. Instead, she had scraped by and stiffened her spine, teaching Frankie to do the same.
And then she’d died. A heart attack, Frankie’s senior year of college. Before Frankie had a chance to repay her. Before Frankie could show her that the scraping had worked.
The memories soured her appetite.
Since graduation, Frankie had clawed her way out of secondhand shops and off-brand cereal. She’d built a name. A reputation. A retirement fund.
And then last year, everything cracked. With the help of an investigator, she’d found her father.Complete with a son her age. Therapy had been fun the day she mentioned that tidbit. The asshole hadn’t just left—he’d been cheating on Mom long before the door slam.
“Is here okay?” Marcus asked, gesturing to a booth patched with duct tape and the ghosts of better days.
She nodded and slid in carefully, mindful not to snag her silk sheath on the cracked vinyl. One outfit had already died a tragic, muddy death today. She couldn’t bear another.
Marcus took the seat across from her. His transformation from handyman to sharply dressed dinner companion had thrown her. Enough that he’d teased her about the cat having her tongue. As if her silence had nothing to do with his freshly shaved jawline made for seduction and judgment.
He wore a dark, tailored suit now, paired with a tie that suspiciously complemented her dress. With his scowl, the one he’d been wearing ever since the burnt dinner debacle, he looked like the cover model for Grump Quarterly, if that were a real magazine.
Everything about Marcus confused her. The low-simmering disapproval, even though she hadn’t done anything to earn it. The polished suit that screamed money, not manual labor. The voice that was cultured, lightly Italian. And hands that weren’t calloused enough for someone who supposedly worked with them.
Something didn’t add up.
And she should know. She was running a long con of her own.
“You’re staring,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting like he knew exactly what his transformation was doing to her nerves.
She forced a sunny smile. “Relax. I was mentally assigning you to a middle school game: Kiss, Marry, Destroy. So far—”
“Hey, Marcus. The usual?” A waitress appeared beside them with a grin and bounce, flipping coffee cups with practiced flair.
“Not tonight,” Marcus said. “Burger, tots, coffee.”
The waitress turned to Frankie, her gaze quick and assessing. “You must be Vivian’s fill-in. Welcome to Gi Gi’s Crossing. I’m Poppy Sinclair.”
“Francesca B.” Frankie extended a hand. “Lovely to meet you.”
“I love your hair,” Poppy said. “Very…bold.”
“She’s a stage-five attention whore.” Frankie resisted the urge to pat Sugarplum. “I wouldn’t normally bring her to a diner, but she’s filling in for Cerise. May she rest in peace.”
Poppy’s mouth dropped open.
“Those are her wigs,” Marcus added, bone-dry. “They come with names. And emotional baggage.”
