Marcus slowed in front of a cozy bistro namedLe Petit Murier, its ivy-covered brick exterior and fluttering, teal-striped awning straight from a movie set.
“It’s breathtaking.” Frankie slid him a playful glance. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ll always be an uptown girl. But this?” She waved toward the cobblestone street. “This makes small-town life marginally less horrifying.”
Why couldn’t Mr. Uptight have banished her here instead?
Marcus’s smile pulled tight. “Harriet told me they won a Rebrand My Town contest a few years back. The producers called it the best little French town this side of the pond.”
Frankie arched her brows. “Someone should hire them to rebrand Gi Gi’s Crumbling.”
“Touchy subject. Gi Gi’s Crossing had hoped to win. Didn’t even make the finals.” He parked the jeep. “To make it worse, several local businesses in Gi Gi’s let their leases lapse and moved here. The ones left behind are still bitter.”
“Explains all the vacant storefronts.” Frankie shrugged. “Hard to blame them.”
Marcus came around and opened her door. “Careful. I’ve been told cobblestones and designer heels don’t always get along.” He offered his elbow like it was the 1950s and she was the Duchess of Fancy Footwear.
She took it with a slow smile. “Manners again? Who are you, and what have you done with Marcus?” What she really wanted to ask was who the woman had been.The one who taught him that stilettos and cobblestone were a bad match.
He laughed, low and easy, guiding her toward the bistro.
But Frankie was only half listening. Ever since overhearing that cryptic phone call last night, her curiosity had gone from wild to manic. Whatever secrets Marcus was hiding weren’t just intriguing. They were practically begging her to uncover them.
InsideLe Petit Murier, the air wrapped around Frankie like a cashmere shawl scented in freshly baked bread and browned butter, the whole place holding a doctorate in seduction.
A hostess with a pixie cut and red lipstick that could stop traffic approached with a cheerful, “Bonsoir!”
“Bonsoir,” Marcus echoed, his accent just polished enough to suggest he hadn’t learned it on Duolingo but had probably still flunked oral exams.
Frankie held the observation. He was already suspicious enough of her.
“Dîner pour deux?” the hostess asked, menus poised.
Marcus nodded, and they were guided to a cozy table near the window. Candlelight flickered over rustic wood and café-tiled floors. He pulled out her chair. Gentlemanly again.
As she passed him, a swirl of sandalwood and spice hit her senses, warm and expensive. Her body sighed before her brain could veto the reaction. She stiffened. Surely it was the ambiance making her pulse trip likethat. Had to be. Restaurants like this came with mood lighting and poor judgment.
The hostess set down their menus. “Theo will be your waiter tonight.” Then she vanished, as gracefully as if she’d exited stage left.
“You’re staring,” Marcus murmured, a thread of laughter in his voice.
Frankie blinked. “Was I?”
“Definitely.” He didn’t look away. “But I can’t blame you. I clean up nicely.”
She narrowed her eyes, then watched as his gaze swept slowly over her face.
“Now, you’re staring,” she said.
“Was I?” He smiled, all mischief and ease. “It must be because your beauty just knocked my manners out cold.”
Her cheeks went warm. What the hell?
She lifted her menu and muttered from behind it, “Maybe we should talk instead of trying to win a blinking contest.”
“Your topic of choice?” He mirrored her pose, menu lifted just enough to frame the amused gleam in his eyes.
Frankie lowered hers a fraction. “I overheard your phone call last night.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “How much did you hear?”
