Ziggy spun, eyes going wide. “Darling, I adore your aesthetic. If heartbreak could be healed by beehive energy alone, I’d be reborn already.” He turned to Rae. “And whomight you be?”
Rae, looking slightly stunned, hugged the army jacket to her chest. “Rae. I’m learning to thrift. Fashionably.”
Ziggy fanned his cheeks with both hands. “Oh, how I adore budding fashionistas!” He extended his hands. “May I?”
Rae reluctantly revealed the jacket. “The kids at school think I’m poor and clueless.”
Ziggy inspected the piece like it might blink first. “With a few tweaks, this could say you’re bold enough to lead but chill enough not to care what they think back.”
“Evelyn’s been teaching me to sew,” Rae offered.
“Marvelous,” Ziggy declared.
Evelyn nodded at Rae. “Try it on again.”
Ray slipped into the jacket. Ziggy circled like a proud fashion fairy godmother.
“Cinched here,” he said, tapping the waist. “Shorter hem. Maybe a hand-painted flower on the pocket…cheeky but heartfelt.”
Evelyn handed over a pincushion. “You pin. I’ll stitch.”
Ziggy got to work, then stepped back, arms crossed, thoroughly pleased with himself. “Comments?”
Frankie approached, squinting critically at the sleeve. “One more cuff fold. Softer line.”
Ziggy adjusted with flair and threw both hands skyward in a jazz-hands finale. “Perfection!”
Frankie laughed. And for the first time in a very long time, she didn’t feel like an exile faking her place in the world.
She felt like a woman building something that might actually matter.
A club. A friendship. A life she was shaping piece by piece.
Just temporary, of course.
The idea of staying longer than planned flickered across her mind, quick and quiet. She swatted it away. There was work to do. A mission to finish. And a town full of budget Barbies in desperate need of a rebrand.
Chapter 27
Marcus had survived his fair share of surprises in Gi Gi’s Crossing, but nothing had prepared him for the sight of a wild-haired man in shiny gold pants bursting through the manor’s front door, a Vegas revue apparently missing its headliner.
“Where is Marcus D Grant?” the stranger demanded, scanning the foyer as though expecting a spotlight to cue his entrance.
“That’d be me,” he said flatly.
The man lit up. “Fabulous!” He thrust forward a hand weighted with rings. “I’m Ziggy. Just Ziggy.”
Before Marcus could respond, footsteps echoed across the foyer’s gleaming tiles. Frankie dashed in, cheeks flushed, hair wild, clearly mid-panic. “Ziggy!” she hissed, seizing his sleeve. “I told you—” Her gaze cut to Marcus, and she clamped her mouth shut.
Ziggy ignored her. “Francesca, don’t worry. We’ve already established instant chemistry.” He turned to Marcus, lifting his chin like a tragic actor delivering his final line. “He won’t deny me sanctuary in my hour of heartbreak. Isn’t that right, darling?”
Marcus blinked.
“Ziggy, you cannot just barge in and declare chemistry,” she snapped.
Ziggy pouted like she’d punted his emotional support cat. “So I can’t provoke instant lust? Please. Tell her, Marcus. You want me.”
“Ziggy—” Francesca warned.
