“Whatare you doing? I said the internet is for paying customers only.”
“Just a quick check-in,” he said, eyes on the screen. “Then I’m off to Manhattan.
That got her attention. “You’re going to the city?”
He nodded, still not looking at her. Still definitely stealing the Wi-Fi.
“I’m going with you.”
“What. What?”
“You heard me.” Ms. Birdie would be impossible to persuade over the phone, but in person? Frankie had a chance.
Marcus snapped his laptop shut and stood. “No, you’re not.”
“You’ll love road-tripping with me,” she said, already texting Jane to schedule coffee with Ms. Birdie. “I sing. I snack. I only threaten murder if someone changes the playlist without permission.”
“You have a job.”
She grabbed her purse and opened the door, then turned and waited for him to accept the inevitable.
Let him try saying no. She’d already decided he didn’t get a vote.
Chapter 11
Marcus drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, his carefully orchestrated plan having unraveled quicker than a contractor’s quote in the hands of a homeowner with a Pinterest board.
How had she done it? One minute, he had been in control. The next, he was hauling two newly delivered designer trunks like an underpaid bellhop.
Her request to “swing by the manor for a quick wardrobe change” had turned into thirty-two minutes and eighteen seconds of waiting while she checked the contents.
The door finally opened.
And out came Francesca, because no woman in that outfit could be called Frankie, with the kind of confidence usually reserved for Bond villains.
Her wig was now a sleek, raven bob. A silk scarf wrapped around her head like she was about to flee the paparazzi.
She wore a crisp, form-fitting white shirt that tucked neatly into black leather pants that looked like they required a team of assistants and a prayer to shimmyinto. And those red stilettos? They clicked down the sidewalk like a warning bell. Or a challenge.
He swallowed hard.
Apparently, he had a type. Runway assassin with espionage flair and zero respect for boundaries. The sunglasses were the only letdown. Oversized and opaque, hiding the sharp eyes he’d started to find…dangerously compelling.
“See?” she said, sliding into the passenger seat like she’d been invited. “Told you I’d only be a sec.”
He cleared his throat, trying to regain control of the situation. Or at least his pulse. “What was wrong with the wig you were wearing?”
She shuddered. “Darling, please. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing Isabella P Chance in Manhattan.” Then she fastened her seatbelt and gave him a once-over behind those absurd shades. “And stop acting like I’ve wrecked your whole life. I told you, I’m excellent road-trip company.”
Marcus nearly laughed. Excellent wasn’t the problem. Dangerously distracting was more accurate. Especially when every glance from her threatened to knock one of his secrets loose.
He sighed, resigned. “How so?”
“You’ll see.” She flashed him a smile that was blinding, unsettling, and entirely too genuine. “Now, if you’re done wasting our time with questions, let’s get the hell out of Gi Gi’s Crumbling excuse for a zip code.”
Marcus stiffened at her slight to the town’s name. Sure, Gi Gi’s Crossing wasn’t Manhattan. It lacked flash, five-star dining, and functioning Wi-Fi. But the town had a charm, a kind of stubborn authenticity that had begun to grow on him. Not that Frankie would ever notice. To her, it was exile with ancient plumbing.
“Careful. Rumor has it, people who mock this town are cursed to live here forever,” he said, pulling out of the driveway and turning on the wildflower-lined gravel road that led to the highway.
