Marcus stood in the gravel driveway, surveying the damage done by last night’s torrential downpour, when an Uber slammed to a stop, the passenger side landing squarely beside a mud puddle that could easily be renamed Lake Gi Gi.
He stared at the car’s tinted windows and waited for the door to open. Waiting for Frankie Peterson. Ms. Birdie had warned him of her imminent arrival.
The driver’s door creaked and out climbed a wiry man who looked like he’d spent the last several hours gritting his teeth through conversational landmines.
“Rough ride?” Marcus asked.
“You have no idea.” The guy stomped to the passenger side, rapped his knuckles against the back window, and yelled, “End of the line, lady. Time to get out.”
The window slid down, revealing a woman wearing oversized sunglasses. She tilted her head in the driver’s direction, her lips curving into a smile that managed to look both polite and condescending. “Be a doll and open the door for me, would you?”
The driver jerked his thumb toward the door. “Not part of the service. You’ve got hands. Use ’em.”
Her smile didn’t waver, but Marcus didn’t miss how her nostrils flared.
“Chivalry is officially dead,” she declared, before opening the door, taking one look at the mud, and recoiling. “Oh, no. This will not do.” Her head swiveled toward Marcus. “You there,” she said, her voice suddenly taking on the crisp weight of a queen addressing a peasant. “I’ll need you to lift me out. And do be careful not to cause wrinkles. This blouse is Dior.”
“And you are?” he asked, although it was clear.
“Francesca B.”
Things just got much more interesting. “Francesca B do you have a last name?”
“It is of no consequence. I’m known as Francesca B. That is enough.”
Marcus arched an eyebrow, his lips twitching against a grin. Apparently, Frankie wanted to keep her real identity from becoming common knowledge in town, which would explain the change in her hair color. At the fashion show, she’d been a powerhouse blonde. Today, she wore a brunette shade and a messy bun that gave off accidental-bookstore-clerk energy. The kind that might read banned books and destroy you with a Post-it note. While he had no intention of letting her hide behind this name change forever, he’d play along for now. “Well, Francesca B, scootch to the other side and climb out.”
Her mouthformed an O, and she blinked at him like he’d just confessed to kicking puppies. It took all his willpower not to crack a smile. Getting under her skin might prove to be a fun pastime.
“Does the owner of this home know you’re so rude to its guests?”
He cocked his head. “You find my suggestion rude?”
She lowered her glasses down her nose far enough to scorch him with an ice-blue stare. “Scootching is not done in my circles. Did your mother never teach you how to treat a lady?”
“A lady, yes… A princess, no.” He gestured toward the mud puddle. “In the meantime, option A awaits.” He paused, then circled to the other side of the car and opened the passenger door, dodging the smaller puddle she’d be stuck with. “Option B is on deck. Your choice.”
Her gaze flicked to the puddle, then to Marcus. “Unbelievably rude,” she muttered, slipping her glasses back up her nose before planting her fancy bag in her lap and sliding her leather-clad legs toward the open door. She hesitated before carefully placing one foot on dirt and stepping out of the vehicle.
Unfortunately, the dirt was soft, and her heel impaled the ground, throwing her off balance. “Save my Birkin,” she screeched as she flung it toward him while in the midst of an all-out flail.
Startled, he caught the purse upside down and gawked as she plopped into the mud puddle.
“Careful now,” he said, biting back a smile. “Wouldn’t want the princess to lose her glass slipper.”
She scrambled into a standing position and looked down at her soaked heels and mud-caked outfit.
And for one blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, her face fell.
Not angry. Not dramatic. Just…defeated.
Then her chin snapped up. The sunglasses slid back into place. Walls rebuilt.
She stopped moving and glared at him, mud everywhere. She pointed at something at his feet. “Don’t just stand there. Retrieve my items before they, too, are ruined.”
He glanced down and took inventory of what had tumbled out of her purse. A bottle of hot sauce, a tube of lipstick, a book, and a three-pack of condoms. He picked those up first. “Only three?” he asked, dropping them in the bag.
“Bite me.”
