“Tell me more,” Frankie forced herself to say.
“By keeping a version of your name, it will be easy to remember to answer it when someone calls out to you.” Ms. Birdie sounded slightly flustered.
“I explained why I threw the shoe,” Frankie said, still hoping for a reprieve. “And you said it was an understandable action.”
“Understandable doesn’t make it okay. One might murder a cheating spouse, which is understandable, but it’s not okay.”
“A good lawyer could get me off on a cheating spouse murder charge.”
“Frankie, this discussion is over. If you allow yourself, I believe you’ll have a fine time playing the part. I suggest you take a few wigs and bold outfits to sell the character. As far as Gi Gi’s Crossing is concerned, you’re a wealthy socialite looking to…immerse herself in small-town life. When you return, you can write a piece about going undercover to see for yourself the appeal.”
“So, you want me to go undercover as a Birkin-bag-toting heiress who reads Jane Austen by candlelight for the sake of an article?” she pushed, not hating the way the assignment was being massaged into something much more palatable than a forced banishment.
Ms. Birdie smiled faintly. “Not Jane Austen. You should pretend to read something far more outrageous than that. For the sake of a fabulous article, go all in and make the experience as entertaining as possible. Just don’t forget the being nice part of the assignment.”
“Eccentric but nice.” Frankie’s mind whirred, already calculating possible actions she could take to play up the role. “If I’m doing this,” she said after a long pause, “I’ll need to borrow items from the closet.”
The closet in question wasn’t just any closet. It was an archive of haute couture, a treasure trove of fashion history. It would have everything she needed to immerse herself in her new identity.
“Fine, fine,” Ms. Birdie said.
“I’m taking the entire Birkin collection.”
“Of course,” Ms. Birdie agreed. “Oh. And one other thing. I’ve arranged for you to stay in a small cottage located on the grounds of a lovely manor.”
Frankie perked up. A town with a manor couldn’t be all bad. It suggested at least one affluent local. Someone she could practice her cover story on. “That will do just as long as the manor’s chef is prepared to cook meals for myself as well as that of the household’s occupants.”
“I’ll see if I can arrange that,” Ms. Birdie said, a twinkle in her eyes. “But I should mention, the manor is undergoing renovations. Its owner is not living there. According to my sources, it’s currently occupied by the contractor.”
Six hectic hours later, Frankie stood in her condo, surrounded by an explosion of fashion chaos. Wigs, leather, and two half-packed suitcases littered every available surface. Not to mention two trunks that would be sent to her new address by the end of the week.
She held up a pair of sky-high stilettos in one hand and a ballet flat in the other. “Am I supposed to blend in or stage a coup?”
The flats hit the discard pile. She packed the stilettos inside the nearest suitcase after wrapping then in tissue to keep the leather from scuffing.
Frankie opened one of the five borrowed Birkin bags she was taking with her—because a runaway heiress would never abandon her collection—and began filling it with items worthy of its buttery leather interior.
A vibrator disguised as a lipstick. She didnotdo small-town guys.
A small bottle of hot sauce. Some people didn’t understand seasoning, and she refused to suffer blandness.
A package of condoms. It was better to have them and not need them than fuck and get pregnant.
She picked up a small hardcover and turned it over in her hands:How to Make Friends (Even If You’re a Bit of an Asshole).A parting gift from her therapist.
Charming.
The only reason she hadn’t tossed it was because… Well, she liked the title. It was refreshingly honest. Brutal, even.
Hell, if she were forced to run book clubs during her banishment to Gi Gi’s Crossing, she might just make this the pick and invite Mr. Uptight, via Ms. Birdie, to join in. No way in hell he had many friends…if any.
She shoved it into the bag. She might be exiled to small-town purgatory, but she wasn’t about to go quietly.
And as for Mr. Uptight?
She’d peel off his mask, ruin his reputation, and do it all without smudging her lipstick.
Chapter 3
