Marcus poured another drink, this time vodka, and the clear liquid burned like guilt down his throat. “I’ll call Ms. Birdie,” he muttered. “She’ll get Frankie back to Manhattan. She’ll keep my name quiet. And we all know she’ll take that secret to her grave just like all our others.” The words tasted like ash, but there was no other way.
Wanting Frankie was easy. Having her was impossible. Family came first. Always.
Chapter 22
The phone’s buzz rattled the nightstand, jerking Frankie awake. She groaned, fumbling with one hand while wiping at her eyes with the other. “Hello?” she croaked.
“Frankie, I’m glad I caught you before you left for work,” Ms. Birdie said, sounding far too chipper for this hour.
Frankie pushed up on her elbows, her skull pounding. “Why?” she whispered, nursing the fallout from too much of Marcus’s overpriced whiskey.
“Because I have some fabulous news. You’ve officially been sprung from Gi Gi’s Crossing. I’ve sent my driver to pick you up. He’ll be there at nine.”
Frankie struggled upright. “Why?” A hundred other words pressed at her tongue but…whiskey.
“Mr. Uptight has had a change of heart,” Ms. Birdie said breezily.
Frankie froze. Ms. Birdie didn’t do breezy. Which meant something was definitely up.
“He said, and I quote, ‘fixing you was never his responsibility.’”
Her mouth fell open. Hangover be damned. This required words. “What in the actual hell does that mean? That I’m unfixable? That he’s just…what…tapping out?”
“That sounds about right,” Ms. Birdie replied.
“Fuck him!” Frankie snapped. The words echoed in her pounding skull, but not nearly as loud as the memory of Marcus dumping her last night.
“I thought you’d be thrilled to be brought back into the fold. To relieve Isabella before she combusts from all the double duty.”
Frankie narrowed her eyes. There it was. The reason Ms. Birdie sounded off. “What did Isabella do that has you pulling rank over Mr. Uptight to save her ass?”
“Darling, you’ve misunderstood. Isabella’s been delightful,” Ms. Birdie said smoothly. “Her team was just singing her praises at dinner last night. Something about next month’s cover kicking the ass of this month’sVogueissue. You know the one I’m speaking of, right?”
Of course she knew the one.
It had been painfully brilliant.Voguehad teamed up with Louboutin to spin Frankie’s heel-throwing scandal into marketing gold. The tagline:The Only High Heel for Women of Passion.
She still cringed that her old office had scored viral fame off her disaster. The cover had even made the damnToday Show.
“Yes. I saw it,” Frankie muttered.
“Isabella believes we should enterNaked Runway’sclapback cover in the Cover of the Year Contest,” Ms. Birdie continued.
Frankie had already seen it. Jane, her assistant, had slipped her a mock-up. The cover, set to debut next month, was genius. Hell, it madeVogue’slook like amateur hour.
Times Square drowned in discarded heels and crumpled press passes. Dead center: Frankie and a U.S. Navy sailor in the iconic V-J Day Kiss pose—only Frankie’s free hand was flipping off the camera. One Louboutin dangled from her kicked-up foot, its red sole flashing like a war flag amid the chaos.
The tagline:Naked Runway:For Those Whose Passion Is as Bold—and Unapologetic—as Their Fashion.
It would be a monster hit. A triumphant middle finger to anyone who thoughtNaked Runway, or Frankie Peterson, was going anywhere but forward.
Frankie tore her thoughts from the cover and back to the real gut punch. Mr. Uptight had decided she wasn’t worth the trouble. Another man waving the white flag.
“Oh, look at the time,” Ms. Birdie said. “We’ll talk cover choices this evening over dinner. You’d better pack if you want to be ready by nine.”
Frankie shoved a hand through her hair. “So that’s it? Pack up, go home…still unfixed?”
Ms. Birdie hummed, maddingly thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t say that. Think of it as an early release forgood behavior. Something that should have you jumping for joy.”
