Still, she didn’t regret it. Yes, anger had given the stiletto more speed and force than planned, but only because rule number three had demanded action. Some men needed reminding that the backbone of sisterhood could slay monsters. Unfortunately, Lola had attached her career to one of them.
But back to rule four. If her new version was even half right, if kindness could earn you friends, she should have one by the time she left Gi Gi’s Crossing.
A real friend. Or as real as a friend could be when they didn’t know the real you.
On the plus side, whoever this friend turned out to be, they’d like her for no other reason than her personality, because she had nothing else to offer. No job. No fashion-world contacts to dangle, like Isabella had used before turning down Frankie’s never-offered-to-anyone mentorship.
At least...that was the version Frankie clung to.
Annoyingly, there was evidence—quiet, persistent, impossible-to-ignore evidence—that the story might be more complicated. And if it was? She owed Isabella an apology.
Which was a huge problem because Frankie would never break rule number one.
“Stop borrowing trouble,” she muttered, flipping through a pristine copy ofIt Happened One Summer. “The chances of making a friend are minimal.”
And even if she did? It wouldn’t be real. Not when the whole town thought she was some runaway heiress and would riot when they found out otherwise. Maybe she should tell them. Let them gossip. Their opinion of her mattered zilch. Okay, maybe a little. But outside Gi Gi’s Crossing, she had a reputation as a fierce fashion editor to protect. She couldn’t have it tarnished byword getting out that she’d been banished to a small town by a nobody who hid behind anonymity.
Exhaling hard, she eyed the chaos on the shelf in front of her. “I need an assistant. Or a clone. Or a hostage.”
The front door jingled, but Frankie didn’t look up. She uprooted a mystery that had been hiding in memoirs and returned it to its rightful pile. She was about to rescue a romance misfiled in horror when her spidey senses pinged. Something in the room had shifted.
Whoever had come in was being very quiet. Quiet in a practicing avoidance sort of way.
She glanced toward the front of the store just in time to catch a teenage girl vanish behind a stack of puzzles and unopened boxes. Long limbs, too much eyeliner, moving like she’d been trained in the art of disappearing.
Frankie didn’t follow. Not yet. Instead, she began alphabetizing mysteries, letting the kid think she was invisible. God knew she’d needed that once or twice at that age…especially when the mean girls made sure invisibility wasn’t an option.
The bell jingled again.
“Francesca B?” a woman called, stepping inside with the kind of authority usually reserved for fashion show producers and women who could still fit into their prom dress.
Frankie turned slowly.
“You’re the one with the red heels, right?” The woman’s gaze dipped to Frankie’s shoes, and her face pinched.
“They’re Louboutins,” Frankie said. “And, yes, they’re still processing the trauma your mudpuddles continually threaten them with. Group therapy starts Monday.”
“That’s nice, dear. Now, the reason I asked. My niece is getting married, and I need shoes that whisper elegance but scream, ‘I dare you to let your toddler loose during the vows.’”
“Wedge heel. Ankle strap. No rhinestones. Nude if you want versatility. Navy if you want to be the aunt they gossip about for years.”
The woman’s lips curved. “Excellent. I knew you weren’t as unapproachable as everyone was saying. I’m glad I got up the nerve to come inside.”
Unapproachable? So that was the rumor keeping her store empty. Terrific. She’d smiled and said hi this morning. What more did these people want? Jazz hands?
“Suggestions on where I can buy some wedges?” the woman asked.
“Try Rack Room,” Frankie said. “Tell them Francesca B sent you. They’ll have no idea who I am, but you’ll feel important saying it.”
The bell jingled again. A man in his thirties stepped in, flannel shirt buttoned wrong, clearly a proud volunteer from the fashion-impaired sector.
“My sister says I dress like a gas station cashier who also sells bait,” he said, holding the door for the woman as she swept out.
“She’s not wrong,” Frankie said, giving him a slow, appraising glance. “But with minor adjustments, I could upgrade you to quaint roadside diner in under an hour.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I only have three minutes.”
“Lose the flannel. Get a Henley that fits. Slim jeans. Clean boots. And for the love of Gucci, stop letting anyone without a license near your hair.”
