This was pointless. “I didn’t have the time to know I felt that way until you took every single thing I owned right down to my cashmere socks and skipped off into the sunset with Bamby.” She fought not to yell, tamping down her rising anger. “I don’t think I ever saw who you truly were until the night of the live broadcast. You did it right under my nose and then you left me with next to nothing, Mitch, and it didn’t trouble you even a little. I didn’t even get severance pay for time served. I worked just as hard, if not harder, than you to get you where you are at this very second of this career you’re so passionate about, and all I got was a Nissan Versa and my dog. The dog you never liked to begin with. You didn’t know whether I was dead or alive until you needed me to help you.”
She’d have given him credit for showing shreds of remorse if he hadn’t said what he said next. “I told you, Bamby and I are over.”
Her eyes rolled in disgust as she squirmed her way out of his arms and headed toward the door, swinging it open and rushing out, making a beeline for her car.
“Yeah, you sure did. Was it her sagging ratings or her sagging implants that did you in? Look, Bamby isn’t the point anymore. I don’t want to go over this with you. You need to rest. What’s in the past is in the past. Let it go.”
“I got caught up in the fame, Frankie. It just happened,” Mitch called from behind her as his quick steps thunked on the pavement.
Frankie beeped her car door before whirling around. Damn him. Why couldn’t he just let this be? Her words began somber and as calm as she could muster, but they ended up loud and screeching in the chilled night air.
“You were always caught up, Mitch. In you. You were self-absorbed long before you hit national television. And nothing just happens when it’s about shedding your drawers and sticking your man bits into another woman’s special lady. That’s premeditated boinking. So spare me the age-old excuse!”
Mitch caught her up against him again. He sure was quick for a dying man. “I’m sorry, Frankie. I’ve made some mistakes, but so have you.”
Whoa. Why was it that when something most excellent happened, it was all due to Mitch, but if something craptacular occurred, she’d had a hand in it?
“Oh, you bet your ass I did! I made plenty of mistakes. I let you turn me into your whipping boy. But my mistakes didn’t leave you in poverty, living in your aunt’s retirement village. They didn’t leave you humiliated and some sideshow freak on national TV either. You, as always, came out of this smelling like a rose. I was the one who was painted unstable and a raving lunatic. I’d bet my ovaries people give you their sympathetic face when I come up in conversation, don’t they, Mitch? Poor, poor celebrity chef with the crazy wife. But it isn’t you who has to deal with the constant scrutiny when someone recognizes you, is it? They want your autograph. Me? They want to know if my straightjacket’s on tight enough to keep me restrained.”
Mitch’s control was slipping, his patience waning—which meant it was time for him to sound like the reasonable half of this conversation. Like she was the loon in all of this.
“Let’s be honest here, Frankie. You did that to yourself.”
Shoving against his shoulder, she tried to loosen his grip. “I damned well did. I flipped. But let’s also be honest about something else. You did me wrong, pal. Not the other way around. There wouldn’t have been a scandal if you hadn’t created one to begin with. Yet I’m the one paying for it. Well, not a flippin’ second longer! I will not be embarrassed for calling you out because you’re a lying, cheating bottom-feeder, and I won’t be your victim. I like my life now, Mitch. It’s a whole lot less complicated when I don’t have to chase after you with a roll of toilet paper in hand so I can wipe your ass. I like that I’m in control of what happens to my life. Nay, I love it, and you can’t ever have that back. No one will ever control me the way you did again. For any cause, five-star food or otherwise.”
His lips thinned—a sure sign he was fighting to keep his notorious temper in check. Yet his next words were a shadow of sincere. “I don’t want to control you, Frankie. That’s never what I wanted. I just got a little carried away. All I really want is you to consider us getting back together.”
“Because you need me to help create recipes for the show.”
“No—”
“Oh, yes!” Frankie all but shouted, forcing herself to keep her voice down. “My recipes won’t help that. Keeping your dick in your pants might. Now go inside before this gets any worse. Go back to your precious multimillion-dollar brownstone with its ridiculously overpriced paintings and marble floors and let this go. Please. Getting you all riled up can’t be good for you. You’re ill. I’m here for you in the most vague sense. I’ll help you in any way I can, but we’re never getting back together.”
Mitch scooped her up in his arms, then cupped her ass as though he had a right to it, and dying or not, that just wasn’t going to happen.
“Are you sure you won’t reconsider getting me that meatloaf recipe? It could be a big hit. Think about the business it would bring the diner.”
Anger not only at his presumptuous behavior but also at the size of his balls slithered in an ugly climb from her toes to the tip of her head. With a pinch to his ear, Frankie drew him down to her lips.
“I’ll give you a meatloaf recipe—meatloaf this, Mitch Bennett, and take your hands off my ass or I can promise you, you’ll need a proctologist as well as an oncologist. Let. Go. Now.”
Mitch did as she requested, letting her go so that she almost fell into her car. Frankie cracked the door open and gave him one last glance. “I’ll email you. Good-bye, Mitch.” It was all she could do not to snarl the words at him before she started the engine, slammed the door, and left.
Terminal or not, there wasn’t a shred of guilt left on her plate for finally letting Mitch have it.
Consider the air all clear.
“So you and Chloe are never going to make Mama grandbabies.”
Nikos cocked his head and gave his mother a sympathetic smile. Running a hand along her cheek, he leaned in to kiss her. “No, Mama. I’ve told you over and over. I’m not interested in Chloe. I know she’s Greek, and in your mind the perfect fit to the family, but you don’t want me to be unhappy for the rest of my life, do you?”
She spread her hands across her ample hips. “But you like our Frankie. You can’t hide this thing from Mama.”
Shit. “I wasn’t trying to hide it from you per se, Mama. We were still testing the waters, so to speak. Feeling each other out, seeing where everything would lead before we made any official announcements about anything. And I know she’s not Greek, Mama, but you and Papa will just have to live—”
“Bah,” Voula said with affection, cupping his cheek with her weathered hand. “I know Papa and me always say we want you to marry a nice Greek girl, but really, we just want you to marry someone . Anyone. I don’t even think she needs to be nice now you’re so old,” she teased. “We teach Frankie how to be a good Greek. If she can be married to that bad Mitch for all that time, teaching her to make good baklava should be a cupcake.”
Nikos barked a laugh. “Piece of cake,” he corrected, love in his tone.
Voula shrugged. “Same thing. I just want you and your fresh brother to be happy. If Frankie makes you happy, I’m happy.”
“And Papa?”
Voula grunted, making a fist she shook playfully at her son. “He is what your Frankie calls a cranky pants, but he is not mad about you and Frankie. He’s mad he does not feel useful anymore. It’s time we talk about that Florida you say would be so nice for your Mama’s creaking bones. I want to play shuffleboard and sit by the big pool with a tall, pink glass of silly juice. I know if we leave the diner with you, you will take good care of it.”
“You have enough in your retirement fund to last you two lifetimes, Mama. But I don’t think Papa will go for it. He’s nothing if he can’t micromanage the diner.”
She shook her chubby finger at him. “You do
n’t worry about Papa. He’ll come with me if I tell him Seamus Mavros is there . . .”
Nikos gathered her in a hug. “You are one crafty lady, Mama.”
She patted him on the back. “Speaking of my Frankie, where is she today?”
Nikos gave a worried glance at the clock. Frankie, since the first and only time she’d been late, was nothing if she wasn’t punctual to the point of early. On most days, she was a half an hour early, but it was already ten till seven.
He’d spent a restless night with Kiki curled up next to him, refusing to give in to his bullshit insecurities. It wasn’t even Frankie he didn’t trust; something just didn’t smell right with Mitch. Still, lying about kicking the bucket was a drastic extreme to go to in order to woo a woman.
“Morning, Voula,” Frankie called from just inside the kitchen, dark shadows under her eyes.
Voula clapped her hands in delight. “Ah, there she is.” Then she frowned, cupping Frankie’s chin. “You look so tired, my baby. You don’t sleep?”
Nikos watched as Frankie waved his mother off, giving her a quick hug before going to get her apron. “I just had a long night ...er, unpacking. I’m good to go.”
Voula reached for her again, pressing the back of her hand to Frankie’s forehead. “You don’t feel sick, but you come to Voula at lunchtime break. I make you soup. It feeds the heart.”
“Soul,” Frankie corrected on a tired giggle, grabbing her favorite knife. “I’ll see you at lunch.”
More and more, when he observed Frankie with his mother or even his father, Nikos also observed tightness in his gut, an electric tingle in his chest he’d been unsuccessful at pinpointing. His eyes strayed to the woman he’d come to look forward to seeing across from him every day. Her auburn hair was in that messy ponytail, and her amber eyes were indeed rimmed with dark shadows.
Nikos nudged her slender shoulder with his, keeping his ludicrous suspicions and potential outbursts to himself. “How’d last night go?”
Frankie’s eyes didn’t seek his. Instead, she looked down at the chopping block. “Okay. No big deal.”
“Did you come up with anything solid—or are you going to have to go back?”
She frowned down at the carrots she was slicing for the stew. “No, no. I don’t have to go back. I think we sewed it all up. Was Kik okay? Is she in the back with Barnabas?”
He nuzzled her neck, ignoring the weird vibe she was giving off. “Yep, she’s with Papa, and she spent the night plastered up against me like we’d been surgically attached together.” Leaning in closer, he let the tip of his tongue skim the outer shell of her ear. “We missed you.”
Frankie waved him away with a gloved hand and a terse giggle. “Stop. Your mother.”
He took the knife from her, forcing her to look at him by hauling her close, bringing to mind the lascivious notion of taking her right here and now. “She knows.”
When her eyes finally found his, they were weary and hesitant. “Am I in the shit because my last name doesn’t have an ‘opolous’ on the end of it?”
Nikos laughed. He loved her sharp wit. “Nope. Mama loves you. She’s fine with it. Happy it’s you, in fact.”
“Really?” Her genuine surprise was evident.
“Really, sweetheart. Why are you so surprised?”
“Because while I’m clearly diner material, I didn’t think I was ‘big, hunky Greek son’ material.”
Nikos found her lips with his for a quick kiss. “Well, I say you’re Greek material. Now get to work, and if you need a break before lunch, take one. You look like you’ve been up all night.”
Automatically, her eyes strayed elsewhere before she rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. “Don’t be silly, Antonakas. I need at least eight to deal with a slave driver like you. Ten if I hope to be quick of wit.”
Another quick nip of her luscious lips and Nikos said, “I gotta go do payroll. Meet me for lunch in the back?”
She grinned, making his stomach do something he was sure only girls’ stomachs did. “It’s a date.”
Nikos left her chopping carrots and green peppers with a satisfied smile. Today, life was good. Not that she would have prevented him from pursuing Frankie, but his mother wasn’t going to harp on him about Frankie’s less than Greek-ness. Topping that off, Voula was going to talk Barnabas into retiring—something long overdue but much needed.
And Frankie was here.
Opa.
“My Nikos, he likes you.”
Frankie gave Voula a look of caution she was unable to hide while she nibbled a cracker and stirred her chicken soup in the back office.
Voula gave her a shoulder-to-shoulder nudge. “You like him, too, eh, Frankie?”
“He’s...he’s...uh, very nice.”
“S’okay. You don’t have to hide the feelings with Mama. Then we all walk on eggs. Eggs are no good on your feet.”
“Eggshells.” Frankie gulped. Despite the fact that Nikos had given her the green light, she’d seen Voula in action when one of her cubs had a mere scratch.
“Yes. The eggshells,” she said on a wide smile. “I know Nikos, and I see how he looks at you when he don’t think I’m looking. It makes my heart glad. But he has bad thing happen. I don’t want that to happen again, Frankie.”
You’ve been warned, Bennett.
Wiping her hands on her apron, Frankie approached the topic with caution. “I can only promise to do my best not to leave any carnage.”
Voula frowned. “What is this carnage?”
“Wreckage. I mean, I promise to try not to hurt Nikos.”
Voula rubbed a flour-covered thumb over Frankie’s cheek. “It’s not you I worry about. You know about the bad because you were married to the bad. But you’re a smart girl. You learn from your mistakes. It’s Nikos. He has the stupid disease. He doesn’t always pay attention before he say something stupid. He is the most like my Barnabas. Green with the monster.”
Frankie laughed, sliding back in her chair to scratch Kiki’s head. “You mean the green-eyed monster? Like jealousy?”
“That’s it. He is jealous and he does the stupid.”
“Because of Anita . . .”
Voula winked, slipping Kiki one of the treats she carried around in her apron pocket at all times. “She had no business with my son when she really loved somebody else. She don’t look at my Nikos the way you do. Eh, but what can I do when I see disaster? Nikos is a man. He does not listen to his mama anymore, even when I try and warn him. But because he did not listen, and look what happened. Mama is always right. So you be patient, okay? If he opens his big mouth?”
“I promise to try.”
“You’re a good girl. Does not matter that you are not Greek. You’re still a nice girl.”
“Well, this very nice, not-Greek girl thanks you for the kind words.” The warmth of acceptance made her cheeks glow and her heart shift.
Voula laughed, winking conspiratorially at Frankie when Nikos and Barnabas entered the office.
Nikos pulled up a chair next to Frankie, pulling Kiki into his lap and settling her under his chin while Barnabas flipped on the widescreen television Nikos had installed just for him.
Barnabas settled into the chair, patting Voula’s hand when she let it rest on his shoulder.
Frankie smiled at the people she’d come to treasure, sipping at her soup and fighting back a bad case of the sleepies. She felt only a little guilty about not telling Nikos she’d been at Mitch’s all night. Later. She’d tell him later when she was better equipped to have a possible argument she hoped to avoid.
The voice of the newscaster on the TV droned on, familiar to Frankie’s ears, but vague and buzzing due to sleep deprivation. “In our ‘Actual or Nonfactual’ spotlight—celebrity chef, Mitch Bennett.”
Frankie instantly cringed, shrinking down into her seat. God. Mitch was like a bad case of herpes—always with her.
“As seen here on Access Entertainment, the wandering-of-eye and playboy food fanatic
of the once popular Mitch in the Kitchen was all smiles when he revealed a hint to the morning co-hosts that he has some rather exciting plans for the future, involving, of all things, meatloaf. But that’s not the real question you should be asking yourselves, fine fans of the preserved like well-aged wine prince of palette pleasure—the real question is, will Mitch Bennett and his one-time wife and candidate for best impression of a psych-ward escapee revisit their recipe for love? Check out this footage, taken just last night, from Hollywood Scoop’s intrepid reporter Dan Winter, and judge for yourself if it’s actual or nonfactual.”
Frankie’s eyes were wide open now, her hands clenching the bowl of soup.
As scenes from last night flitted across the screen, all forty-two inches of screen, Frankie didn’t have enough breath left in her lungs to even gasp.
And there they were. Displayed in plasma, Mitch’s hands on her ass, her lips near his ear.
The video of her supposed tryst with Mitch undoubtedly had been edited to make it look as though she and Mitch were in some kind of passionate lover’s embrace, and they’d conveniently left the words “meatloaf” and “recipes” in while cutting out her protests.
Yep. Today was all kinds of awesome.
Barnabas clicked the television off, letting the remote slide to the pocket on the side of his chair, wordless. Voula’s horrified face, the shape of her mouth in that O of disbelief, was matched only by her muffled sob and escape out through the doors of the office.
Frankie cleared her throat, praying the raw, cracked feel of it wouldn’t lend to a squeaky, disjointed explanation. She laid a hand on Nikos’s arm, but he yanked it away, making her jump.
She fought for calm. “Listen to me—”
Nikos’s lips thinned, his jaw tight and unforgiving. The muscles of his free forearm clenched, flexing with tension. “You were with Mitch all night last night, weren’t you?”
Burning Down The Spouse (Ex-Trophy Wives Book 2) Page 27