“Are her boobs real?”
Questions floated like confetti.
“I was born into a very wealthy family,” Frankie said, clasping her hands in front of her with the practiced poise of someone delivering bad news at a shareholder meeting. “The kind of wealthy that comes with art collections, legacy schools, and fathers who still believe arranged marriages are charming.”
A few hands went up.
“When I refused the man he picked, I was given two options: marry the guy or get cut off.”
“Who’s your father?” someone called.
“It’s better if I don’t say,” she replied with a tight smile. “He has lawyers on retainer the way most people keep frozen pizza.”
“We’ll just Google you.”
“Good luck,” Frankie said, waving a hand. “He scrubs my online presence weekly like it’s part of his skincare routine.”
That earned a full laugh.
“So you’re not really Francesca B?”
“She’s my pseudonym.”
“What the hell is a pseudonym?” someone bellowed.
“An alternate identity,” Frankie replied. “Authors use them. Some more than one. And famous people when they check into hotels.”
“How many do you have?”
“A lady never tells her number,” she purred.
More laughter.
Marcus watched her work the room like she’d practiced this monologue in front of a gold-framed mirror.
“Now,” she said, pivoting, “since my temporary home is a fire hazard, and none of you are volunteering to take me in, I have a simple solution that benefits everyone.”
Marcus stiffened. Oh no.
“I propose I stay at Gi Gi’s Manor until the cottage is safe.”
“Not a good idea,” he shot back.
“I’m a delightful houseguest,” she countered, laying a hand on his arm.
“The place is a construction zone,” he said. “Contractors will start at six. Power tools. Dust. No catered breakfast.”
“But is it safer than the cottage?” she asked.
“Barely.”
Ben banged his gavel. “Settled. Until the wiring gets sorted and Marcus delivers on his internet fairy tale, he will have a manor guest…Francesca.”
“It’s Francesca B,” Frankie corrected.
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“You left off the B. The B is important.”
