Frankie beamed. “Even better.”
What the actual hell was she playing at?
“Can we get popcorn and pop and—”
“Bad news,” he said, patting his pocket. “Concession stands a no-go. Left my cash on the kitchen counter.”
She blinked. “Seriously?”
“It happens.”
She sighed and reached for the door. “Then I’ll treat it like an orgasm and make it happen without a man.”
The bite in her tone nearly cracked his composure. He smothered a grin. “I don’t recall you fussing too much about my technique between the sheets. Maybe you’ve never had a real man.”
He braced for impact. A verbal grenade. Possibly heel to the shin.
She gave him a toss of her hair, then navigated the gravel like it was a red carpet.
“Who the hell are you and what have you done with Frankie Peterson?” he muttered.
When she returned, her arms were stacked with popcorn, candy, and two oversized sodas.
Marcus fought the urge to help. Rolled down the passenger window instead. “That took you long enough.”
She nudged the door open with her elbow.
A nearby couple clapped.
“Marry her,” someone called.
Marcus slouched lower in his seat. Of course, the drive-in was crawling with romantic idiots.
“Here,” she said, passing him his drink.
He took a sip, made a face. “Too much ice. Rookie move.” Then grabbed a fistful of popcorn. “You know,” he added, eyeing her balancing act as she climbed in, “I’ve always preferred women who wear flats.”
She paused mid-squat, leveled a look at him. “Then it’s a miracle you ever dated anyone worth a damn.”
“Stilettos are impractical,” he said, watching her slip them off.
“So is testosterone,” she said sweetly.
“Gonna have to agree to disagree on that one, little lady.”
She turned toward him, her lips pinched but eyes sharp. “My dad used to say flats made Mom less of a distraction. That heels invited trouble. So now I wear them. I’m no man’s invisible woman.”
Marcus blinked. Damn. Who tells his wife to take up less space?
The movie kicked off with a guitar riff that could resurrect the dead and credits that practically screamed chaos. A car chase launched before the popcorn had a chance to settle. By minute two, something exploded. Twice.
Frankie curled into her seat like she’d been handed front row seats to a sold-out Broadway show. She popped a kernel of popcorn and whispered, “This is better than I hoped.”
It made him twitchy. All that joy and ease. Like the night hadn’t already started with a slow drip of insults and deliberate disappointment.
Twenty minutes in, the action hero dropped a one-liner so absurd, Frankie snorted soda through her nose. She wiped her face with a napkin, eyes still dancing.
He should’ve rolled his eyes. Should’ve thrown in some line about how she’d embarrassed herself. But his chest tightened instead. She was luminous like this. Unguarded and real. And entirely too easy to fall for.
