“Lucky for you, I’m fluent insucks.”
Rae studied her for a long beat. “I have a rule. Never accept kindness at face value.”
That hit harder than it should’ve. “You’re smart to have rules,” Frankie said. “But make sure they’re current. Sometimes we carry around stuff that expired years ago.”
Rae’s eyes narrowed, like she couldn’t decide if it was wisdom or another adult dodge.
“I’m offering help because you asked for it. Not because I pity you. And yeah, I’m a little mean and a whole lot unapproachable. But everyone deserves to feel like the best version of themselves. Even when the world insists they shouldn’t.”
“Do I have to tell anyone at school?”
“We’ll keep it under wraps. Secret fashion tutoring.”
“I heard you made an Uber driver cry.”
“He called Chanel overrated,” Frankie snapped. “Frankly, I showed restraint.”
That got the smallest of smiles. “Fine. I’ll come by at four. But I’m not committing long-term until I see if you’re any good.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Frankie slung her bag over her shoulder. “I’m not just good. I’m spectacular. And if you can keep up, we might just rewrite a few of your rules along the way.”
“Where are you going?”
“To pretend I’m the reluctant star of some small-town Hallmark movie,” Frankie said, heading for the door. “And you’re going to pretend you’re returning to school.”
Chapter 18
At noon, Marcus shut the study door and let the silence settle over him like a verdict.
Outside, the crew was on their lunch break. Tools were down, voices muffled by distance. He should’ve been reviewing the punch list, but for the first time since arriving in Gi Gi’s Crossing, the manor wasn’t his main priority.
Renovating the rickety home was supposed to be the headline act. Everything else? Background noise. Now, the noise had a name. Frankie Peterson.
He glanced out the window. Scaffolding finally hugged the east side of the house after months of grinding council meetings, budget debates, and permits moving at the speed of molasses. He should’ve been celebrating. And he was. Mostly.
But the part of his brain not obsessing over foundation cracks and window restoration was recklessly, relentlessly fixed on Frankie Peterson’s sharp edges, untouchable gloss, and the dangerous hint of softness buried just deep enough to destroy a man.
Dragging a hand through his hair, he thumbed Ms. Birdie’s number and pressed call. Straight to voicemail. Of course.
“Ms. Birdie,” he said, steady enough to fool anyone but himself, “Frankie’s done it. The locals love her. She’s practically radiating niceness. I think we can call the matter resolved. She’s yours again. I’ll have someone take over at the bookstore.”
He paused, gaze drifting to the orchard beyond the manor. Pink buds dotted the branches like they weren’t ready to commit. Everything outside was waking up.
And here he was, ending something the only way he knew how…before she found out who he really was. Before she realized the man in her bed was the same man pulling the strings.
When the call ended, the quiet wasn’t peaceful. Just hollow.
He stayed at the desk, elbows braced, staring at the orchard like it might offer forgiveness. The trees swayed lazily, unaware the man watching them had just pulled the pin on something he couldn’t undo.
His phone rang.
He picked up on the third ring. “Ms. Birdie. I appreciate the call back.”
“Well, hello to you too, Marcus.” Her Southern sweetness wrapped around a blade. “So. You’ve decided it’s time to send our girl home?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and leaned into the chair’s faint creak, as if it could anchor him. “She’sproven she’s changed. It wouldn’t be right to drag this out any longer.”
Ms. Birdie hummed. Not a pleasant hum. A grandmother-who-knows-you-lied-about-the-broken-vase kind of hum. “Marcus, I’ve known you since you were in grade school. What is it you’re not telling me?”
