It didn’t take a genius to see the fastest way to send her packing…pull the trigger on the last-resort tactic. Bad sex.
On paper, it was brilliant. In practice? Madness.
And yeah, it would make him a colossal asshole. Sleeping with her while she didn’t know he was the very man who’d exiled her? That was a betrayal worthy of its own headline. But he’d take Asshole of the Year over Brother Who Put Them All at Risk. Both titles made his skin crawl, but one scraped bone deep.
Which left him with a problem.
How exactly did one even do bad sex? Forget her name? Over-apologize? Narrate the play-by-play like a golf announcer. He pictured himself whispering, “And now…we approach the green.” Yeah, no. That would kill him faster than it killed the mood.
Then again, his humiliation was a small penance for the deception he was about to drop on Frankie. She deserved honesty, not a bad night of sex. He deserved—
Marcus dragged a hand down his face and forced himself to breathe. Ziggy’s chatter followed Frankie in a rapid-fire stream of questions about local dining and whether the town stocked at least one boutique with sensible lounge attire.
Was he really considering sabotaging himself between the sheets? Apparently so.
Too bad Plan D didn’t exist.
Plan C was his last stop.
Chapter 28
One hour later, Marcus opened the back door and found Frankie waiting like she owned the place. Hand on the banister, overnight bag at her feet, a half-smile tugging at her lips.
“Ziggy says he loves the cottage, but the bathtub clashes with his complexion and the refrigerator wheezes like it’s on its last pack of cigarettes,” she said, brushing past him. “He also says thank you, though I think it was more of a ‘don’t screw this up for me’ thank you.”
She didn’t touch the bag. Last night’s Frankie, the one who opened her own doors and bought her own snacks, was gone. This one clearly expected gentleman service.
Marcus closed the door with a soft thud and followed, grateful he hadn’t broken her with his half-assed bad boyfriend routine. “That’s what we do in a small town. We make room for our friends, family, and neighbors.” Even if those houseguests threatened your sanity.
She stopped halfway up the stairs, cocked her head, and gave him a sultry look. “Now you can add to that welcome list, women in need of a stiff drink and a little vibrator therapy.”
Marcus opened his mouth, closed it, then cleared his throat. Fuck.
A thousand responses flooded his brain, all of them off-limits.
He grabbed her bag instead. What kind of idiot actively tried to sabotage a relationship with a woman he was this attracted to? Oh right…him. “Did Ziggy get settled in?”
“Settled? Please. He was halfway through a bubble bath and ranking my guest list by likelihood of social catastrophe. So yes, he’s thriving.”
“Guest list?”
She flashed him a bright, dangerous smile. “Oh, that’s right. You wouldn’t know. I’m starting a friendship club. First meeting is tomorrow night, and naturally the manor was the obvious choice. I can’t serve liquor at Just One More Chapter without a permit, and we both know that is impossible in this town.”
“What kind of club?” A woman considering running back to Manhattan didn’t start clubs. Evidently, his bad behavior on their so-called date hadn’t even moved the needle on getting her out of Gi Gi’s Crossing.
“It’s not what it sounds like,” she said.
“I’m not sure how anyone misinterprets the term friendship club.”
“Okay, fine, it is exactly what it sounds like. But it’s not because I’m desperate. Or weird. Or needy. It’s…therapy related. And you damn well better remember anything I tell you falls under our shared-secrets pact. You blab, I blab. Mutual destruction. Very Cold War chic.”
Marcus stopped at her bedroom door and stared hard at her. Trust Frankie to make therapy sound like a tactical maneuver. “Got it. No blabbing. Tell me more about this club.”
“My therapist gave me this book.How to Make Friends (Even If You’re a Bit of an Asshole). Because apparently, I am an asshole that four weeks of therapy could not fix. Anyway—” She froze, eyes widening, then gave a visible shudder. “Wow. Pact or no pact, that was…an overshare of honesty. Gross.”
“You think honesty is gross?” Therapy was supposed to have softened her edges, taught her not to throw shoes at people who disappointed her. Instead, she’d turned it into a personality critique.
“Honesty is hype. Oversharing is gross. Combined, they’re boring.”
