“Is that mark on your cheek from her?” someone from the back called. “You try to get fresh?”
George’s ears went pink. “No. Of course, not. I’m fostering a cat until we can place it in a home.” He grunted. “Mean little thing. But we’re working on it.”
Laughter rippled through the room, and Marcus let it wash past him. His mind was still on Frankie, on their texting earlier. She’d ended it without a goodbye. She was still pissed he hadn’t stayed past foreplay. Not that he could blame her.
He sipped his coffee, letting the heat burn his tongue. She’d been wrecked in the best way. Rumpled sheets. Sleepy eyes. A flush lingering on her skin. And then she’d asked him to stay.
And he’d told her to get some rest. Like an absolute coward.
More laughter broke out at whatever George had just added. Something about carrying her from the truck to the door so her shoes wouldn’t get wet.
Marcus’s mouth twitched. “She say anything else?”
George’s ears went pinker. “Only that if her pants got wet, there’d be lawsuits. And she asked for coffee like she was royalty.”
“And did you do as I suggested?” Marcus asked, still trying to nudge George toward a little assertiveness.
George shook his head. “I got it for her.”
The room roared again, and George ducked his head, modest but pleased.
Marcus sighed. Of course she’d found a way to charm him. She could charm a monk. Hell, she could charm a man who knew better.
Marcus cleared his throat. “Let’s get to work. This place has waited long enough to come back to life.”
The crews peeled off, scattering across the manor with ladders and toolboxes, a few throwing sidelong glances at the allegedly haunted stairwell.
But Marcus lingered.
His gaze drifted up toward the second floor. The same floor where she’d slept last night. The same floor he’d walked away from after making her come with nothing more than his mouth and the stupid, reckless devotion he didn’t know how to turn off.
He hadn’t left to be smart. Or to keep things clean. He’d left because while watching her fall apart beneath him, he remembered what she’d said over dinner.
“Maybe Mr. Uptight’s got some unresolved childhood scar that’s got him interfering in other people’s lives like it’s a damn moral mission.”
It had hit a nerve then. Remembering it while she was coming undone beneath him? That didn’t just gut him. It branded him.
Because she’d trusted him. And he was the asshole she thought she’d escaped.
He couldn’t keep going last night. Not when every second itfelt like stealing.
Now the thought sat heavily in his chest.
The hammering started. Tools buzzed. Voices carried from room to room. And still, all he could hear was her breathless whisper in his ear, the taste of champagne and defiance lingering on his tongue.
Either way, he was going to lose her.
The only question was whether he’d do it like a coward…or like a man willing to burn for her, even if it meant burning alone.
Chapter 17
Frankie switched the phone to her other ear, drumming her nails on the counter while she waited for the mystery caller to identify themselves. Two more seconds, and she was hanging up.
“Francesca, I don’t know how things work in Manhattan, but here in Gi Gi’s Crossing, we don’t answer the business phone with, ‘Who the hell is this?’”
“In Manhattan, we have caller ID, so the question’s usually unnecessary,” Frankie said. “And we have the good manners to introduce ourselves…especially when there’s a chance the person answering doesn’t know who the hell you are.”
“Honey, this is Vivian. The actual owner of the store. Your boss.”
