Marcus swore.
Frankie stood, slid into her heels, and grabbed her bag. The therapy crap had been a mistake. Vulnerability was just an engraved invitation for someone to stick a knife in.
“Were you expecting more trunks?” he asked.
She crossed to the bar, picked up the whiskey decanter, and cradled it like a prize. Not because she wanted it, but because she refused to walk away empty-handed. “See you around.”
“Wait. Let me deal with this and walk you to the cottage.”
Another knock, harder this time.
“I know my way,” she said, already moving.
The night air slapped her cheeks, cold and sharp. She didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. Didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her hurt.
Some girls got flowers after a night of sex. Frankie Peterson got a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a new life rule carved into bone.
Never bet on being enough. Not for a man. Not for anyone. Not ever.
Chapter 20
Behind Frankie, the cottage’s front door clicked shut like a single, smug clap. As if the Universe had just said, “Well done.”
She flipped on a light and kicked off her heels with enough force they’d need an emergency session with their therapist.
After just two nights at the manor, she’d been demoted. Exiled. Banished back to the servants’ quarters like some mouthy upstairs guest who overstayed her welcome, and she had no idea why.
Last night had been good. Hot, even.
Whatever had gone wrong was on Marcus. He’d had one foot out the door long before she brought up the spanking option. While it may have startled him, it wasn’t why he’d bolted.
For whatever reason, he’d brought her to orgasm and then run. The logical explanation? A sudden bout of what-have-I-done guilt after spilling his and his brothers’ secret to a virtual stranger.
Typical male move. Build walls, mortar them until they could survive a nuclear blast, reinforce with steel beams, and wrap the whole thing in barbed wire.
“Fine,” she snapped, channeling every fired employee denied the promotion they thought they’d earned. “I get it.” She could build walls taller, stronger, and more intimidating than any man could manage.
What wasn’t fine was his lack of transparency. A brave man would have just come right out and said, “Let’s pretend last night didn’t happen.”
And while that would have dented her ego, she would have handled it like an adult…preferably one wearing nothing but her dignity and a killer dress.
Instead, he’d let her ramble. Let her go on and on about vulnerability and communication.
She stormed into the kitchen and glared at the chipped porcelain sink. “Damn you, Marcus D Grant.”
She ripped off her bracelets, dropped them onto the kitchen table, and uncorked the whiskey without ceremony. A generous pour. No ice. She carried it to the living area, collapsed into the faded loveseat, and followed her therapist’s advice for the next time she felt like screaming.
She grabbed a pillow and screamed into it.
It didn’t help. Not nearly enough. But it kept her from throwing the glass at the wall.
When she was done, she smiled. That actually felt…nice.
In Manhattan, screaming bought you a wellness check and a pointed email from the co-op board.
Her gaze landed on a half-collapsed moving box, the book How to Make Friends (Even If You’re a Bit of an Asshole) peeking out from the top. The title promised even assholes could cultivate at least one good friend. Frankie wanted to believe that was true.
“I’d like at least one person to ugly cry at my funeral. Preferably not the priest,” she told any ghosts listening. “And the homeless man who sleeps near my condo, the one I slip coffee shop gift cards to every Friday, doesn’t count. If he showed up and cried, it’d be over the caffeine shortage.”
