If he didn’t know who she really was, would he believe her wild Francesca B story? Would he like her?
And why was it, knowing everything he did, that he was still intrigued?
Appalled, he could understand.
Unimpressed, he could understand.
But intrigued… That pointed to an entirely different emotion.
Intrigued hinted at hopes of uncovering the good side of Frankie Peterson. Which meant he thought she had one. Nothing in his research supported that belief.
He pushed the thought away. Frankie Peterson did not deserve a free pass. She’d earned her judgment day. Friends don’t let slights go unanswered. It was the DeLuca way, stamped into him long before a new name tried to wash it clean.
“Here you go.” Poppy placed their food on the table and walked away before he could voice a thank you.
Frankie sighed.
He glanced her way. “Everything okay?”
“What’s your story?” she asked, before taking a bite of her salad.
“Not nearly as exciting as that of a runaway heiress.”
“Try me.”
He shrugged. “I oversee renovations. Manage the crew. Keep everything on budget.”
She paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Do you do any hammering or sawing or wiring?” The question was asked in an accusatory tone.
“None of the above.”
“Then why do you wear the flannel shirts? Isn’t that like the construction worker’s MO? Their ticket to getting the big city girl to fall for them?”
The statement caused him to recall Ms. Birdie’s story about Frankie’s views of the small-town, big city girl, romance trope popular at Christmas time. “Did you move here in the hopes of falling in love with a local?” he teased.
“So, you’re not the brawn…or the brains?” she asked, ignoring his comment.
“Is that your way of getting me shirtless to prove I have muscles?” he pushed.
“You said you made twenty grand last year,” she countered. “Your suit suggests otherwise.”
Even though it shouldn’t have, her observation surprised him. He’d not given it another thought when he’d changed into one of his suits to take her to dinner. “It was my uncle’s,” he lied. “We were the same size. My aunt gave them to me when he died.”
“What’s with the accent?” she pushed.
He snagged a tater tot and dipped it in ranch, and a memory blindsided him. Those first months with Gi Gi, when a tutor came daily to sand down the Italian edges from her boys and stuff their mouths with idiomatic English. “I didn’t know I had an accent.”
“An Italian one,” she pressed. “It’s faint, but it’s there.”
“I spent some time in Italy on a project. Must’ve picked it up then.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m to believe you make twenty thousand a year, you’re a project manager, you wear a dead man’s suit, and you don’t have an ounce of Italian blood running through your veins despite having the stereotypical appearance of an Italian leading man?”
“Which one? Could you be more specific?” The words came out automatic, one of those stock phrases hammered into him as a kid for when anyone noticed something. Distract, deflect, never confirm.
She pursed her lips like she was debating whether to reply or stab him with her salad fork. “Forget I asked.”
“All your questions cause me to wonder if you’re really the charming heiress you claim to be. Convenient,isn’t it, that your dad has someone scrubbing you off the internet?” Too bad his father’s crimes couldn’t be erased from his enemies’ memories as easily.
