She frowned. Oops.
Next to the coffee pot, she’d found a note in Marcus’s irritatingly neat handwriting:You can use the ballroom. But stay in that vicinity. Do not start until the workers leave at 3:30.
Ziggy, who had joined her for coffee and spotted the note, immediately launched into a barrage of questions about Marcus. Pure Ziggy energy, rapid-fire and nosy, as if the bland handwriting were a code only he could crack. What exactly had gone down last night to inspire such an insipid message?
Despite wanting to spill everything so Ziggy could help untangle the mess in her head, she’d kept the humiliating little scene to herself. Not that her brain had let her escape it. The vibrator had given it a valiant effort, but concentration had refused to cooperate. Hard to focus on down there when her mind was stuck replaying what had gone on down there prior. Every awkward minute in brutal high definition. The man who had once taught her to crave foreplay had muttered “open sesame” and kissed her thigh like a distant coworker.
What kind of math even was that?
Her therapist’s voice floated in, maddeningly calm:do not write endings in the middle. Try curiosity before certainty.
Which was exactly when she had turned the vibrator off, admitted defeat, and stared at the ceiling until sunrise.
She’d carried that same restless loop through the entire day. Curiosity or certainty. Technically, she had chosen curiosity last night, and technically, he had failed twice. Leaving her stranded the first night was almost as offensive as whatever that performance hadbeen the second. At some point, even her therapist would have to say screw curiosity, protect the pussy.
With no verdict in sight and her guests scheduled to arrive at any moment, she pressed pause and chose to focus on the debut of her so-called fashion club. The ballroom wasn’t Manhattan-ready. It was barely Hudson Valley-ready. But for Gi Gi’s Crossing, it passed the test. Mismatched chairs encircled an antique trunk masquerading as a centerpiece, dressed in vintage scarves, dripping candlelight, and cut glass, the whole thing auditioning for a flea market grand opening. Overhead, fairy lights twinkled, courtesy of Ziggy’s fearless ladder act and complete disregard for OSHA.
She watched as Evelyn, who’d arrived an hour early from Threads, adjusted a centerpiece with the intensity of someone prepping a royal wedding. “This one’s tilting too aggressively left.” She fluffed the feather boa, treating it as if it were sacred tinsel.
“I love that you said that like it’s a crime,” Frankie said. Privately, she filed Evelyn under long-term potential, the kind of woman she would text from Manhattan about shoes and secrets.
Ziggy sashayed past them with a punch bowl in one hand and a bottle of gin in the other. “We are mere moments away from fabulous,” he announced. “Marcus’s top shelf was practically begging me to liberate it.”
Frankie arched a brow. “I told you to use the shot bottles from the box at the store. No one in Gi Gi’s Crossingis going to mourn a missing crate of Nippleton’s Nip Shots.”
“If Marcus notices, I’ll settle the debt with tie consultations.”
“Hello? I’m here,” Poppy Sinclair sang out, balancing bacon-wrapped dates and bourbon. “Appetizers, gossip, and sass, reporting for duty.”
“Love the confidence. Lose the jacket. Keep the attitude,” Frankie said. “And thanks for coming.”
“Word is the cool kids are already calling this the Losers’ Lounge,” Poppy said, shrugging out of her jacket.
“Losers’ Lounge today. Town royalty tomorrow. Watch and learn.”
The door swung open to Rae and a cluster of middle schoolers stacked behind her like nervous dominoes. She planted her feet and lifted her chin.
“Roll call,” Rae announced. “This is Eli. He likes hoodies and pretending he is invisible. This is Theo. He draws everything and everyone. This is Maya, queen of unicorn boots. And this is Priya, who carries a taco purse because joy is a lifestyle.”
Frankie took them in with a curator’s eye. “Invisible works if the shoes are good. Artists get extra napkins. Queens may proceed. Taco purse is a power move.”
Rae’s mouth twitched. “They are here to behave and learn things.”
“Perfect,” Frankie said, stepping aside. “House rules. Mocktails to the right, adult drinks to the left. You arespritzer people tonight. Try the cherry-lime. It pairs beautifully with good decisions. Break a rule and you help Ziggy coil extension cords.”
Four nods. One small smile.
“Welcome to the club,” Frankie added. “Make it worth the outfit.”
George stepped inside, nodded toward Frankie, and then headed straight to a ficus, which he proceeded to hide behind.
“Who’s that?” Ziggy asked.
“George. Our very own socially awkward town sweetheart.”
Ziggy’s eyes lit. “Challenge accepted.”
Harriet the Spy arrived next, full camouflage from hoodie to face paint, binoculars clanking against her chest like statement jewelry. She gave a tight nod and staked out a corner by the window.
