But instead of fury, Frankie stepped out with a smile bright enough to gut him. Jacket half zipped, heels clicking like she owned the gravel, and not a trace of the storm he’d hoped to trigger.
She didn’t even wait for him to get out. Just opened the Jeep door and slid in. “Is it true? Are we going to a drive-in? What movie? Do they have several to pick from?”
Why the hell did she sound excited?
“If I’m paying, I’m picking,” he said, aiming for flat. “If you don’t like drive-ins, might as well head back in.”
She twisted to face him, eyes lit like this was an actual date. “Don’t laugh, but I’ve always had a fantasy about a guy taking me to a drive-in and buying me every snack at the concession stand.”
He stared at her. There was no way she meant that. It had to be sarcasm. She was baiting him. She had to be.
He reached for cruelty. “I’ve heard concession calories are harder to burn off for women your age.” Even as he said it, his stomach dropped.
For the briefest second, something cracked in her expression. Then she smiled again. Too bright. Too smooth.
Damn it. She’d handed him a rare vulnerability, and he’d used it for target practice.
Which was the point.
But still.
“I like this wig,” he said, trying to fill the silence. “Reminds me of Wendy.”
“Wendy?”
He let out a low whistle, pushing the memory like it mattered. “She was one hot momma. I’ve had a thing for redheads ever since.”
Frankie turned forward again, her jaw tight.
“Tell me more about Wendy,” she said. The words were light, but her tone? Pure icicle.
“College lifeguard. Redhead. Gorgeous. Wicked laugh. Left me for a women’s rugby coach.” He stole a glance at her. “Looked a lot like you do now, if you squint and subtract the middle-aged fine lines around the eyes.”
Frankie didn’t respond.
He glanced at her again. She was watching the road like it might offer her a better date.
Perfect. With any luck, his next jab would land the knockout.
Somewhere in the back of his head, he could hear Giovanni’s voice right before they drove away.
“If all else fails? Be the worst-case scenario. Bad date. Bad sex. Cry a little. Tell her you love her. She’ll vanish before sunrise.”
Marcus sighed. Bad sex and crying. If that was his killer blow, he’d be the cautionary tale she told at every fucking dinner party.
“My Wendy’s name was Samuel,” Frankie said, her voice too calm to be casual. “Lead singer in a band. Shaved head, sexy as hell smile. Cried when I left him for the drummer. Looked a lot like you, but with more muscle and better stamina. Never once left after the first quarter in the bedroom.”
He chuckled, a real laugh sneaking past the wreckage of his plan. There she was. The kitten with claws.
They pulled into the drive-in just as the sky dimmed to the kind of blue that warned you the mosquitoes were clocking in. The movie screen stretched betweentwo rust-streaked poles that looked one stiff wind away from collapse. Around them, truck beds, hatchbacks, and lawn chairs dotted the lot, the whole scene screaming county fair, minus the funnel cake.
Marcus parked. Killed the engine. Tried not to think about how much he didn’t hate this. Because he wasn’t supposed to enjoy her comebacks. He was supposed to be the villain.
And villains didn’t laugh when the heroine swung back harder.
“What’s the movie?” she asked.
“Some old action flick. Lots of explosions. Possibly a rogue alien.”
