“Right.” Poppy handed over the menus. “Need a minute?” Her eyes never left Frankie.
“Salad. No dressing,” Frankie answered.
“No dressing?” Poppy’s horror was so genuine, Frankie had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
She was about to explain, just enough to humanize herself without sacrificing power, when Marcus butted in.
“Let me guess. You adore diet food?”
There it was. That quiet, cultured jab. Polite enough to pass in a boardroom. Cutting enough to draw blood.
Frankie turned back to Poppy. “No dressing but thank you for double-checking my cognitive ability to order a salad.”
Poppy’s expression cooled to winter frost. “Suit yourself.” She pivoted and sashayed off, hips doing more talking than her mouth.
“Quick tip,” Marcus said, eyeballing Frankie over his coffee cup. “Manhattan frankness doesn’t go over well in Gi Gi’s Crossing.”
“And your flirty banter with the help does?” Frankie snapped.
“The help?” His brow arched with exaggerated calm.
“You know, the people who accept money in exchange for underwhelming service and unsolicited judgment.”
Before he could fire back, a stocky man in a grease-stained cap paused beside their booth. “Marcus! Meeting’s still on for seven, yeah?”
Marcus nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
The man tipped his cap to Frankie. “Evenin’, miss. Name’s Fred.”
“Nice to meet you, Fred. I’m Francesca B.”
“Welcome to our town with an identity crisis,” Fred muttered before walking away.
Frankie turned to Marcus. “Identity crisis?”
He set down his cup. “They auctioned off the naming rights after the former treasurer turned out to be less ‘math whiz’ and more ‘embezzlement enthusiast.’ The winning bid renamed it Gi Gi’s Crossing.”
“Seriously?” she asked, feigning ignorance.
“It gets better. There’s now a town ordinance: anyone caught saying the old name out loud gets slapped with a fine. Completely illegal, but the mayor calls it a civic donation.”
“What was the old name?” Nippleton. It was Nippleton, her brain shouted.
He gave her a knowing look. “Nice try. I like my money.”
She huffed and pulled out her phone, tapping into a locked Notes file labeled: Things to Research.
Poppy Sinclair
Fred
Marcus Grant
Marcus watched her over the coffee he held in his hands. “Texting your boyfriend?”
“Drafting Cerise’s memoriam,” she said dryly.
“The wig?”
