Frankie crossed her arms, a proud smile tugging at her mouth. “You look like the girl who belongs in that boutique’s window display. Own it.”
Evelyn grinned and handed Rae a scarf from the counter. “On the house. Every transformation needs a finishing touch.”
“Thank you.” Rae launched herself at Frankie, arms flung wide, wrapping her in a hug that came out of nowhere. Then she did the same to Evelyn, clutching the scarf like it might anchor her to this new version of herself.
Frankie blinked. She didn’t do hugs. Not often. Definitely not from kids. And yet, her arms had wrapped around Rae. Traitors. She’d be questioning them later.
She glanced at her watch. “Time for you to head home. If I’m going to keep you as my bookstore assistant, I can’t be the one getting you grounded.”
Rae grinned one last time and dashed out, hugging her bag of treasures like it was runway couture.
As soon as the bell jingled behind her, Frankie turned to Evelyn. “I don’t have all the details yet, but I’m starting an Operation Small-Town Chic Club. I’d love for you to be a part of it. I’ll teach haute couture to the older crowd. You can teach boho chic for the ones still discovering their vibe.”
Evelyn’s eyes lit up. “I’m in.”
“I’ll loop you in once I’m ready to roll it out.” She glanced through the window and spotted George’s truck idling at the curb. “Looks like my ride’s here.”
Evelyn walked her to the door. “We should grab lunch sometime.”
Frankie paused with her hand on the knob. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had invited her to lunch without an ulterior motive. “I’d like that.”
Maybe this friendship thing wasn’t as impossible as she thought. Maybe Frankie Peterson actually had it in her to be someone worth befriending.
She slid into the truck and flashed George a smile. “You’re a peach for picking me up.”
He turned pink. “Marcus said to tell you he’d fetch you at eight.”
She blinked. “For what?”
George shrugged. “Didn’t say. Maybe a drive-in movie night date? There’s a new one playing tonight.”
Her stomach twisted. Apparently, Marcus had deputized George as his own personal assistant, complete with vague message and zero context. Part of her wanted to march straight to the manor and give him a refresher course in basic human decency.
But the other part…
The other part had a better idea.
If she was serious about this whole likability experiment, why not start with the least likely candidate?
Marcus Grant: friendship crash-test dummy.
If she could win him over, strictly platonically, no swooning, and absolutely no thoughts of what his tongue was capable of, then she could win anyone.
And if she just so happened to look spectacular while friendship-seducing her new nemesis?
That was just good branding.
Chapter 25
Marcus tapped the steering wheel, staring at the cottage like it might explode. In his mind, Frankie was inside, heels on, arms crossed, fire loaded behind her eyes, waiting for him to crawl to the door and grovel for being not just late but aggressively, unforgivably late.
Instead, he honked.
Not a polite, oops-my-bad honk. A long, full-body, soul-offending honk. Twice.
The Bad Boyfriend Project had officially begun.
The cottage door burst open. Marcus braced, already composing his defense.
