“Chic Happens?” God, no. That sounded like a novelty wine your aunt buys in bulk for bunco night.
“How to Impress a City Slicker (Without Losing Your Soul).” Clunky, but closer.
She flipped to a clean page and wrote, in big, underlined letters: Operation: Small-Town Chic.
“Operation: Small-Town Chic.” It sounded like something Isabella would pitch during a meeting while sipping oat milk and texting her better half.
And yet, it felt right.
Frankie jotted down names of a few locals who could use low-key friendship coaching disguised as fashion tips.
Rae. Obvious choice. Maybe the school counselor had a short list of other lovable outcasts with underdeveloped social skills who could join her.
George. He’d sweated through his flannel just trying to ask if she liked muffins during their three-block commute. A prime candidate.
Poppy. The waitress knew everyone’s business and spread it with a smile. Inviting her wasn’t charity. Having the town’s gossip queen on her side felt like smart strategy. And anyone forced to wear a cherry-red uniform and sensible shoes deserved an invite on principle.
Harriet the Spy. Wore camo and sat in trees. A clear cry for help.
Marcus. She rolled her eyes and scribbled in the margin: HARD PASS. Underlined. Twice.
She looked at her list, at the title, at her barely touched whiskey. This was either the dumbest idea she’d ever had or the one most likely to land her a crown in the Town Gossip Olympics.
Either way, she needed backup.
She grabbed her phone and tapped Ziggy’s name. As her second-in-command atNaked Runway, he was contractually obligated to answer and pretend to be thrilled about it.
He picked up on the second ring. “If this is a murder confession, I’m in. I’ll bring a shovel and snacks, but I’m not digging in Versace.”
“Ziggy,” she groaned, sinking into the loveseat. “Do you ever answer like someone whose frontal lobe has fully developed?”
The last time she’d spoken to him, it had been to say he wasn’t actually fired. She’d had a change of heart and decided he, along with every other editor atNaked Runway, could have their jobs back. Naturally, she’d made him call all the others and deliver the good news himself.
“Only for boring people,” he sniffed, with the drama of a man draped across a fainting couch. “What’s going on? You’re either drunk, desperate, or hiding a scandal.”
“All three,” she said. “I’m starting a club.”
A long pause. “A club?”
“Think friendship meets fashion rehab. With themes. And tough love. And judgment.”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
“Probably. But I’ve read a book.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.”
“I told Ms. Birdie the air in a small town would ruin you. You were not meant to breathe air particles polluted with flannel fibers and crock-pot steam.”
“I need back issues of the magazine. Friendship features. Worst-dressed retrospectives. Express shipped. Annotated.”
Ziggy inhaled like he was preparing for a monologue. “Frankie. Darling. Sweetheart. I love you. But no.”
She frowned. “No?”
“I’m not sending anything.”
