Evelyn plucked it right back. “We’re going to make yours better than Beth’s.”
“How?”
“I’ll tailor the sides. Give it some shape. Less ‘borrowed from Dad,’ more ‘borrowed by choice.’”
Frankie nodded. “And we’ll add a patch or two. Just enough to say it’s yours. Put-together without being try-hard.”
Before Rae could answer, the front door banged open with theatrical force. The bell above it shrieked in protest.
Frankie whirled, fully prepared to lay into someone for storming into Threads on a mission to disrupt peace.
But the dramatist in question wasn’t just anyone.
Gold lamé pants. Wind-tousled hair. Arms out like he’d just burst through a curtain and needed an encore.
Ziggy.
Her jaw dropped.
Ziggy never simply arrived. He curated his entrances with ETA alerts, mood boards, emotional temperature updates, and, once, a footwear warning.
And yet, here he was after a full day of ignoring her early-morning ETA text.
He spotted her and launched himself forward. “Darling, I asked one binocular-wielding person where to find you, and suddenly the entire town had opinions. Then there you were in the window, the very picture of a fashion icon. And before you say anything, you simply must know Eddy dumped me! I mean, it was mutual. Possibly. But oh, Fran…Francesca, I am emotionally dismembered. Ruined, I say!”
Frankie bit back a smile. She’d asked for fashion reinforcements, not a spontaneous emotional striptease, but with Ziggy, rhinestones and drama always came as a set. Beside her, Rae clutched the army jacket, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, posture frozen in full-blown culture shock.
Frankie gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “He’s fine. That’s just how Ziggy processes emotions…loudly, fashionably, and usually in surround sound.” She offered a dry smile. “We met at a designer sample sale in Paris. He tackled a duchess for a sequined trench. I was trying to escape the carnage with a cashmere wrap and my dignity.”
It wasn’t remotely true, of course, but it fit the narrative she’d been selling Gi Gi’s Crossing. Hopefully, it would remind Ziggy that her banishment came with a curated backstory.
Evelyn watched the scene unfold like she was mentally calculating Ziggy’s heartbreak-to-makeover potential. Her expression said she already had three possible outfit upgrades and a trauma-facial booked in her head.
“How did you know I was hiding in Gi Gi’s Crossing?” Frankie asked, feigning curiosity. Because if she didn’t, God knew someone in this gossipy little town would.
Ziggy pressed a theatrical hand to his chest. “I ran into your father right after Eddy and I had our little…public discourse,” he said, flipping his bleached bangs with a dramatic flourish. “It happened during the Manhattan Knitters’ weekly knit night.”
Of course it had. She should have known Ziggy would be ready for improv. “You were at Knit Night?”
“They’ve got an opening. I’d had the loftiest plans of snagging it before the club went public with the application link.”
“My father was there?”
Ziggy hummed and inspected his nails. “He was at the comedy club where the knitters sometimes gather. Not exactly yarn-friendly lighting, but very big on emotional unraveling.”
“Andhe recognized you?”
“Darling, I’m like Chanel No. 5 at a backyard barbecue. I don’t fade.” Ziggy’s grin tilted. “He approached me after the spectacle. Said if I could convince you to come to your senses, move back to Manhattan, and marry whatever algorithm-generated dreamboat he picked for you, he’d make it worth my while.”
Frankie scowled, purely for show. “What did Daddy Dearest offer?”
Ziggy fluttered his lashes. “Bitch, please. There’s no bribe lavish enough to make me play fairy godfather to a spreadsheet in slacks.”
Frankie’s lips twitched. This was…kind of fun. “Just as well, because nothing could entice me back to that insufferable arrangement.”
“Of course not! But never mind that. My heartbreak, Francesca, is a couture-level tragedy, and you are the only soul fabulous enough to bear witness.” Ziggy flung his shiny Weekender bag onto a nearby bench. “If you get to flee from controlling family expectations, then I’m absolutely entitled to flee a relationship that mistook me for a character in a restoration tragedy.”
Evelyn approached, beehive bobbing, offering a polite smile. “Hi there. I’m Evelyn. Welcome to Threads.”
