“At least Evelyn is sticking around,” Maya said. “And she’s super cool.”
“Speaking of which,” Frankie said, smile a little tight, “I bet she’s anxious for you to arrive. Don’t keep her waiting.”
Evelyn had taken it upon herself to teach the Misfits how to sew. Their current project: outfits worthy of the Gatsby festival runway, even if none of them had stitched a hem before last week.
Frankie watched them sling backpacks over shoulders and tumble out in a blur of energy. She let the quiet settle, grabbed her own things, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and turned at the sound of a car outside.
She stepped onto the sidewalk, locked the door behind her, and stopped. Marcus stood there, arms crossed, expression unreadable. In the back seat of his Jeep sat a duffel she hadn’t noticed before.
Her stomach dropped, quick and mean. Don’t be ridiculous, Peterson. She lifted her chin and chose mockery over panic. “So you read Miss Informed,” she said lightly. “Afraid I’m plotting small-town matrimony and you’re making a run for it?”
He said nothing.
“Relax.” She kept the smile in place. “I don’t do boyfriends, and I don’t do permanent small-town addresses. I am covering for Vivian and then I go. I am not letting any man turn me into a small-town girl. Mr. Uptight would count that as a win.” She tipped her head, lighthearted on the surface. “I don’t do surrender. I do revenge.”
Chapter 35
Miss Informed. Small-town matrimony. Don’t do boyfriends. Don’t do small-town addresses. Mr. Uptight. Win. Revenge.
Marcus had no idea what Frankie was babbling about. He hadn’t read the town column, but he’d spent the last seven nights with her curled against him, stealing the sheets and murmuring fashion critiques in her sleep. And now she’d mentioned Mr. Uptight and revenge, which probably meant leaving town for a while was the right call…even if the thought of so many nights without her made his chest pull tight.
Catching feelings was ridiculous. Their arrangement had boundaries, a safeword, and an end date circled in invisible ink.
“Well, say something,” she snapped.
Deciding there was no winning if he tried to unpack the wedding comment, he went lighter. “Is the scowl because I’m leaving, or because I’m the one picking you up instead of George?”
She eyed his suit. “George always arrives with a smile. You arrived with bad news. Tell me I’m wrong.”
It was probably criminal that he enjoyed knowing she was upset he was leaving. It implied an emotion beyond attraction. “My leaving has nothing to do with whatever Miss Informed wrote this week. Duty calls.”
Her gaze slid to the duffel. “Overnight?”
“Two weeks. Meeting about financing. Family logistics after that.”
“I’ll be sure and put fresh batteries in my vibrator,” Frankie said, smooth as silk.
He choked. “Jesus, Frankie.”
She didn’t give him time to recover. “Honestly, I’ve been missing this thing he does that you don’t.”
“What in the hell would that be?”
“Take direction.”
Marla Jensen strolled past with a pastry box and no sense of timing. “Hi, Marcus. Hi, Frankie.”
He smiled, praying she hadn’t just heard the wordvibrator.
Frankie’s expression sweetened, like sugar could kill a rumor. “Hi, Marla.”
Marla waved and kept walking.
“That,” Frankie said, still smiling. “That’s what’s bothering me.”
His smug satisfaction died a tragic death. So, it wasn’t about him leaving. “What?”
“Marla tells Bernice. Bernice tells Poppy. Poppy tells everyone at the café. Then the Gazette hears you picked me up in a suit, which gossips down to we’re a couple and you’re proposing at sunset.”
