Frankie hadn’t expected Marcus to find her until she wanted to be found. How in the hell would he even know about a speakeasy coffee shop? And even if he did, there was no way he paid ten bucks for coffee.
And yet.
In he’d strolled. Not Ms. Birdie, whom she’d invited. Him. Her damn landlord. Like he owned the joint.
She hadn’t asked how he found her. Ms. Birdie had clearly gone running to Mr. Uptight, who then tattled to Marcus. In other words, she’d chosen Mr. Uptight over Frankie. That betrayal pinched harder than Frankie wanted to admit.
On the walk back to the Jeep, they stayed silent. Him, probably because he sucked at conversation. Her, because Francesca B refused to materialize. And without her, Frankie didn’t trust herself to speak.
Now, two hours into the four-hour drive back to Gi Gi’s Crumbling, the silence had her nerves clawing for release.
“What’s next on the agenda?” she asked, aiming for pleasant.
“I figure you’ll squeeze in a couple of hours at the bookstore before closing,” Marcus said, eyes straight ahead. “I’ll check on the progress of the construction crew.”
Damn. The bookstore and its booby-trapped binder awaited. “You’re not going to feed me?”
“This isn’t a date.”
Of course it wasn’t a date. She didn’t date small-town men. “You only feed women you’re dating?”
“As a rule, yes.”
“Francesca would like to formally accept your invitation to dinner,” she said with an airy flourish.
“I didn’t invite you.”
“You were going to.” She cut back the airiness this time but still landed somewhere between theatrical and helium balloon on its last gasp.
“You want to have dinner with me?”
“Thank you for asking,” she said sweetly, deliberately misinterpreting. “But, as you can imagine, I don’t usually dine with men who can’t keep up with my lifestyle. But since it’s you, I’ll consider the invite. Do you have references? Preferably someone who survived dinner and lived to tell about the date?”
“Again, not a date. And no references needed, trust me.”
Of course, it wasn’t. But her chest felt warm. And her breathing felt unsettled. She didn’t love that.
Because this wasn’t a date.
And it wasn’t supposed to feel like one.
“So…no references?” she asked, trying to sound disappointed instead of curious.
He gave her a long look. “I’ve been known to splurge on the occasional all-you-can-eat shrimp feast at Red Lobster.”
“Quick question. Am I meant to swoon over that?”
“Has anyone ever mentioned how utterly undelightful you can be?”
“Francesca B is offended.”
She turned and pressed her nose to the Jeep window as they took an exit and drove about a mile down a deserted stretch of road. Then, like a postcard materializing out of nowhere, civilization appeared. A charming wooden sign cheerfully announced: Bienvenue à Chantilly Falls.
She blinked twice, then grinned. The pastel explosion of quaint shops, flower boxes bursting with geraniums and pansies, and whimsical signage with names likeBoulangerieandCafé au Laitpractically squeaked European charm. “Did we accidentally detour through Paris?”
Marcus chuckled. “Feels like it, doesn’t it?”
“How have I never heard of this place?” Then again, she was a born-and-bred Manhattanite whose unofficial motto was: If it isn’t accessible by taxi, subway, or Uber Eats, it doesn't exist.
