They were sorting through dusty boxes that had been snoozing in the corner of the bookstore. Rae, bless her little introverted soul, wasn’t a chatterbox. She just helped, quiet and steady. Which, for a teenage girl, practically qualified her for sainthood.
Frankie glanced sideways. Rae’s ponytail was frizzed out from the humidity. Her black hoodie was ghost-stamped with what used to be a band logo. Her shoulders slumped in the way people did when they’d learned to shrink to survive.
“What’s that smell?” Rae asked, popping open the next box like she expected a severed head.
Frankie caught a whiff and recoiled.
They peered inside the box.
Dozens of tiny liquor bottles stared back at them, each sporting a faded sticker that read: Get Your Nip at Nippleton!
“Well,” Frankie said, plucking one out for inspection, “that’s festive.”
Rae blinked. “Is this legal?”
“Hell if I know.” Frankie snapped the lid shut with a decisive thud. “Congratulations. You’ve been promoted to bookmarks and boring totes. Liquor’s above your pay grade.”
Rae snorted. An actual snort. “You said hell,” she said, then reached for the next box.
Frankie straightened up. Did hell count as a swear word? It must. She cleared her voice. “Ms. Potty Mouth’s Rule Number One. Save your swears for maximum impact. Drop them too often, and people stop listening.”
“And rule two?” Rae asked, grinning.
“Rule two,” Frankie said, lifting a brow, “never underestimate the effect of well-placed sarcasm. It’ll get you further than profanity every time.”
The bookstore had been tolerable today, mostly thanks to some creative interpretation of inventory responsibilities. She’d reorganized the nonfiction section by spine color, alphabetized the employee recommendation shelf by first name, and flipped every romance novel upside down.
By mid-afternoon, she’d finalized her blueprint for Operation: Small-Town Chic, color-coded a to-do listso meticulous it could double as modern art, and texted Ziggy to brainstorm fashion-forward friendship prompts and ask him for his estimated time of arrival in Gi Gi’s Crossing. He’d informed her in a full-fledged pout that he’d requested time off, only to have Ms. Birdie say she’d get back to him.
“Got it,” Rae said, slapping the lid on another box. “How many more before we can go to Threads?”
Frankie checked her watch. “Zero. Go wash your hands. I’ll grab my things and close up.”
Four minutes later, the bell over the door of Threads Thrift Store jingled as Frankie pushed it open, Rae trailing behind.
Frankie paused in the doorway, letting her gaze sweep across the cozy chaos.
Racks of clothes leaned like they were gossiping about each other. Scarves billowed off shelves in muted rebellion. The air was thick with the scent of mothballs mingled with vintage polyester. Two scents you’d never see a candle company push. Everything in the place felt worn but still clinging to its story. Maybe that was what kept tugging at her. Unfinished things.
She hadn’t seen Marcus all day. Not once. Not even a blurry glimpse of him. Not that she’d been looking.
And yet…
She’d heard whispers.
Well, George had mumbled something vaguely cryptic about “unexpected company at the manor last night.” And if anyone else in town had spotted theBMW still parked in the drive this morning, they hadn’t stopped to give her the gossip. This had left Frankie with nothing but time. Time and curiosity. And the mental stamina to spiral like a gymnast on espresso.
A friend?
A woman?
A roving pair of insomniac Mormons spreading the word of God?
Frankie had stayed up far too late, half-expecting Marcus to knock on her door, on a mission to apologize and explain. But the door had stayed stubbornly undisturbed, and her phone hadn’t buzzed once.
Her new plan was simple: ignore him until he begged for her attention.
Then ignore him even harder.
