Frankie noted the binder’s bulging pages, several already threatening to escape. “What exactly is in here?”
“Everything to run the place.”
“Unacceptable.”
“Your reference said you’re brilliant and fanatically organized.” Vivian winced again. “You’ve got this.”
“I don’t care what you were told.” Frankie held up the binder. “This is not a handover. This is abandonment.”
“Best laid—”
The bell jingled. A large man barreled in. “Darling, I’m here.” He rushed to Vivian, ignored Frankie, and ushered her straight out the door.
Seconds later, they were gone.
“I clearly said unacceptable,” Frankie muttered, flipping the sign to Closed with a dramatic flair.“This town needs a crash course in preparedness.”
A woman passed by the store window and waved.
Frankie almost ignored her and then remembered her mission. Fake niceness until her sentencing was lifted and she could return toNaked Runway.
Could this be the town’s spy, taking notes for his Royal Uptightness?
She forced a wave. It nearly sprained something.
Pivoting to the back of the store, she dropped the oversized binder onto a cluttered desk already buried in flyers. With a huff, she yanked out her phone and dialed Ms. Birdie.
“You’ve reached Ms. Birdie’s line. Please leave a message at the beep.”
Frankie scowled. She hated leaving messages. Hell, she hated making calls. That’s what assistants were for. She missed Jane. An absolute gem who never cried when Frankie forgot to say thank you.
The beep in her ear reminded her this wasn’t a pity party.
“I need a new assignment,” she snapped. “This one’s a catastrophe.” She hung up without a goodbye.
Then she stared at the binder.
Its cover was a sticker crime scene.
You had me at trigger warning.
Spread those pages like a good little girl.
Hot girls read books.
“This is what happens when you let Pinterest personalities run a business,” Frankie grumbled, cracking open the cover and recoiling at the chaos inside. But before she could process it, the damn doorbell jingled again.
“Can’t you read?” she snapped. “We’re closed.” Too late, she remembered she was supposed to be nice.
“Good morning to you, too,” came a familiar voice.
She looked up. Marcus leaned in the doorframe, amused as ever.
“What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be cracking the whip and making sure the cottage is repaired by five.”
He didn’t flinch at her tone. “Brian took one look at the electrical box, declared it a fire hazard, and a quick fix wasn’t in the cards.”
“Well, thanks for the doom update. You may leave now.”
