“What was that about?” Nikos demanded.
Hurling a bag of potatoes up on the large island, Frankie gave him a look of pure innocence. “What was what about?”
His face went all thunderclouds with a chance of rain. “Marco.”
“He apologized.”
“I know that much. But why would you go out with him?”
“Why would you care?”
Voula snorted along with Cosmos and Hector as they ducked out of the kitchen.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Nikos’s lips thinned. “I didn’t say I cared, but he is my best friend.”
“So he can’t have more than one friend? Is that like a man rule? Because if that’s the case, your math sucks. Simon makes three of you.” She began to peel the potatoes for shredding, with an extra bit of enthusiasm in each swipe of the peeler.
Nikos glowered. “That’s not what I meant, Frankie, and you know it.”
Pausing, she placed her hand on her hip. “No. I don’t know what you mean. Why don’t you explain?”
Nikos grappled for a moment before finding what she was sure he considered a suitable cover. “I just mean that Marco’s in a bad space right now.”
“And spaghetti would trap him in the bad space forever?” she asked, her words dipped in sugary sweetness.
He rolled his tongue in his cheek to emphasize his aggravation. “No. I just mean you saw the way he behaved last night. What if it happens again and you can’t handle it?”
Nice. Convenient. Not so well executed. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m in a bad space, too. In fact, there’s plenty of room on the couch in the bad space. I’m happy to share, and if Marco even considers ordering a thimbleful of booze, I’m out. So don’t worry your Neanderthal head about it. We’ll be fine.”
“Fine,” he gritted out.
She gave him a wide grin full of sadistic mockery, taking pleasure in his fight to keep his ire in check. Maybe there was some truth to what Jasmine said last night. Maybe. “Yeah. It is.”
Nikos turned to stalk off, his broad back rigid with tense muscle, but Frankie called him back when she remembered something about her conversation with Marco. The something she hadn’t quite been able to process but had a total grasp on now. “Hold on one minute, cranky pants. I have a question for you.”
“Does it involve what Marco’s favorite flower is?” he cooed, dripping sarcasm and discontent.
Frankie had to look down at the potatoes to keep from giggling, pleased he was so clearly jealous. “No, but it does have to do with Marco.”
Nikos raised an arrogant eyebrow while he waited.
“How about you tell me a little something about Carrie and Mitch.”
His eyes became hooded, cautious. “What’s there to tell? Didn’t Marco tell you everything?” he asked with a flippant tone.
Surely he didn’t think she was going to let him get away with the defensive crap, did he? Frankie shook the potato peeler at him. “Oh, he told me plenty. What I want to know is why you didn’t tell me their affair virtually happened right here in your diner? You’ve met Mitch! Or was that something else you wanted to protect me from?”
“You know, I sort of feel like all I’ve done is apologize to you when I did nothing wrong but try to protect you.” He gave her his best remorseful face, probably counting on the beauty of it wowing her into submission.
And it might have—if not for last night.
Not. Today.
“Uh, no. That isn’t going to work. You knew Mitch had slept with Carrie long before I interviewed for this sweatshop.”
“If you’re mad because I didn’t call you and tell you he’d tapped another chick before Bamby, I don’t think I can be held responsible. It’s not like your number was listed.”
She paused for a moment, gathering her words as another revelation hit her. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. You knew as far back as my interview that Mitch had slept with Carrie—worse, Mitch was right here in your diner when they were testing concepts for his new show. You knew all of that and you still made like you had no idea who I was. And even after you admitted you knew who I was, you didn’t say a word about Marco. Thoughts on that?”
“It’s not like we were BFFs, Frankie. You’d just walked in off the street. I was an employer looking for an employee.”
“But Marco is your BFF. Did you think he’d never come back from Botswana, like, ever? Did you really think we’d never run into each other? You lied to me!” she accused.
“Ohhhh, no, lady!” Nikos yelled right back, his eyes squinting at her. “I didn’t lie. You just never asked the question.”
Frankie snorted loud. “Please. How random is that? ‘Hey, potential boss, was my ex-husband ever here at your diner, sticking his man bits in your best friend’s wife?’ ” she yelped. God, this man!
There was a moment of silence before Nikos let out a cackling laugh, long and sharp to her ears. He leaned against the island’s top with the heel of his hand while he caught his breath. “Man bits?”
Frankie’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, no, Antonakas! There’ll be none of that changing-the-mood bullshit so you can avoid conflict. Not this time. So tell me—is there anything else I should know? Did Mitch have orgies here, too? Did he try to cop a feel from poor Voula? Because I gotta tell ya, there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot Mitch hasn’t tapped around these parts! What else don’t I know that I should on the off chance I might have another messy, very public incident like last night?”
Nikos instantly sobered, placing a warm hand on hers. “I honestly just wasn’t thinking ahead. I only knew you needed a job, and I felt like it was the least I could do after what I saw happen right in my own diner with Mitch and Carrie. You were pretty raw when we met, Frankie. You looked like you’d been through the mill.”
She swatted his hand away and made a face at him. “Poor, poor Frankie Bennett, right? Lost, alone, tabloid fodder. But never fear, Nikos Antonakas to the rescue,” she said with pointed sarcasm.
Throwing the potato peeler down, Frankie fought a ridiculous rush of hot tears. Her humiliation, finding that Nikos knew things about Mitch even she hadn’t known, made her feel like a complete fool. Like every aspect of her life, aside from her television debauchery, was a raw open wound, exposed for anyone to rub salt in.
Worse, it was the dismal caricature she’d become. One everyone wanted to feed or save or protect. Enough. “You felt sorry for me. So you gave me a job. Thanks. No lie when I say I really appreciate the paycheck, but do me a favor—stop looking out for me and my fragile state, and stick to running diners!”
As she made her way to the employee bathroom to throw some cool water on her face, Frankie made a decision. No more pathetic, loser divorcee in need of everyone’s pity and sympathy.
Even if she eventually found out Mitch had tapped every twentyfive-year-old from here to Sheboygan.
Even if.
“You’ve done it now, brother,” Cosmos commented with a wry tone.
Nikos let his chin drop to his chest with a tired sigh. “I made her cry.”
“You did. You suck.”
“Big,” he agreed.
“We told you to tell her.”
Nikos nodded his head, picking up the peeler. “You did.”
“And now look.”
“You know, I’m really sick of Mitch inadvertently fucking up my love life.”
Cosmos frowned. “Uh, sorry? You have no love life. If what you told me about last night with Frankie is true—you blew it, pal. You skipped out on her, resisted your manly urges, whatever—it’s exactly what you should have done because for the hundredth time, no good can come from you hooking up with a woman who’s on the rebound. Besides, you left the door wide open for Marco and his well-worn coat of pain and self-pity to cloak the fair Frankie and win her heart. There’s nothing a chick digs more than a guy with gen-u-ine feelings. She’ll be his problem in no time flat. And then you can forget all about Frankie and her issues that you
seem to find so irresistible. Did it ever occur to you to maybe date a woman who isn’t on the most-wanted list for rebound relationships?”
Nikos yanked another potato from the bag with a rough hand and said with a sharp, unforgiving tongue, “Cos, shut the hell up. I mean it. Shut up now.”
“I’m just looking out for you the way you seem to want to look out for every woman who needs a knight in shining armor. Not to mention, stray animals, and even drunk gamblers like Hector,” he whispered, looking over his shoulder with a guilty glance toward Hector’s corner of the kitchen. “Admit it, you’re a sucker for anyone who needs help. You’ve been that way all your life. Stray animals, lost souls—whatever. You’re in for saving them.”
“And that’s a bad thing? Look at how well Hector’s turned out.”
“You feed the homeless guy who sleeps on the bench outside, Nikos. The point is, you have a savior complex.”
“Benny’s a good guy. Just down on his luck,” he defended. “Mama feeds him, too.”
“Look, all I’m saying is you don’t need Frankie’s shit rocking your world, and I’ll say that as many times as it takes to get it through your thick skull.”
Nikos remained silent, refusing to take his brother’s bait. The hell he’d let Marco have a crack at the woman he wanted. The. Hell.
He didn’t like that he was coming to want Frankie far more than even he was comfortable with. Forcing himself to leave that car last night had been an act of sheer willpower so physically difficult, he had a sore jaw this morning from clenching his teeth.
Frankie was a woman newly free of the marital ties that bind. One who hadn’t yet experienced what her life could be when she found out who she was. A woman who could still possibly have feelings for the man she was married to for eighteen years. He’d been burned by that kind of woman—a woman in transition, on the rebound.
But he didn’t want a woman in transition.
He wanted one forever.
And Frankie just wasn’t a woman he should be considering to play the role of his partner.
Yet, here he was.
Still.
Considering.
CHAPTER NINE
From the journal of Frankie Bennett: Oh, I’m not reluctant at all when I write—game on, sistah! No more dastardly deeds, Chloe Whatserfaceopolus. Got that? You’ve picked the wrong loon with a wooden spoon. Heh. My crazy—it rhymes. Oh, and in the spirit of the season—Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la this, you troublemaker, ’cause I’m gonna rain all over your Silent Night with so much shit, you’ll pray it’s you who’s run over by a reindeer instead of Grandma!
Jasmine snuggled closer to Simon, shooing a jealous Gary away. Closing her eyes, she inhaled with a deep, cleansing breath in mind. She wasn’t the most experienced woman when it came to keeping things uncomplicated, but she was certainly going to try.
Which meant not reveling in the sheer joy of having a strong, sexy-as-hell man holding her against his tight, too-young-for-her body. “You should call Win,” she forced herself to say. It was the last thing she wanted, but she was sticking to her guns. A relationship on her terms, and her terms meant no sleepovers for the quarterback.
She wouldn’t have any man getting too comfortable in her hard-won space. This was hers. Paid for with money she earned herself every week. That fact used to make her smile with such pride. Pretty Jasmine making an honest living all on her own without the aid of a sugar daddy. All of her so-called ex-friends who fully expected her to hunt down the nearest senior citizen capable of taking care of her could piss off.
Yet lately, since she’d met Simon and they’d culminated this wild, physical thing between them, those very things had taken on a rather narrow, pointless meaning.
Somehow, calling the couch she’d found for such a bargain at the Salvation Army “hers all hers” was no longer as much of a coup as it once was; now, it was—just a couch.
It was her couch. Indeed. She was pathetically proud she’d saved to buy it. Yet who really cared that a couch represented her struggle for independence? Early on in her divorce, the material things she was afforded by her own earnings had left her glowing. Now, other things left her glowing. Other less materialistic more emotionally satisfying things.
And that was becoming damned uncomfortable. She didn’t want to feel this way about Simon—or anyone—but most especially the rich, fun-loving Simon. She wanted to live life on her own terms, be free to do as she pleased, when she pleased without having to atone for her every movement. She wanted to lie around in her pajamas and not have to gussy up unless she chose to.
You couldn’t do that if you had an anchor around your thigh—even if the anchor was luscious. Even if.
Simon brushed her hair from her shoulder, planting soft kisses on it, working his way down to her nipple. “Why should we wake Win when you have a perfectly nice bed I can sleep in?”
Yeah, Jasmine. Why? “Because you have your own perfectly nice bed, and it’s only nine o’ clock. I’m sure Win’s still up watching Super-nanny . A good thing, too. He could use all the tips she has to offer on parenting a spoiled, out-of-control man-child,” Jasmine said, realizing there was no hard, accusatory edge to her tone this time when she teased Simon about being a boy in a man’s body.
Simon laughed against her breast, the warm ripple of air making her squirm with delicious anticipation. “If you’d just let me, I’d spoil you right along with me.”
“I’ve been spoiled, bad boy. I don’t need any man’s gifts or trinkets or fancy meals to keep me coming back for more. I come back for more because I choose to come back for more. Period.”
The determination in her voice rang sour, even to her own ears. But she couldn’t let go of her need to prove she wasn’t in this for anything more than the physical pleasure it wrought. If Simon knew how close he was to touching a place in her heart she didn’t want touched, he’d have the upper hand.
No can do.
Simon had gone in for the kill on his hunt to date her in a big way. Initially, he’d come off like every other clown who had some cash to throw around. He’d infuriated her from the start. But that fury had turned into a playful game. When she’d finally given in, she’d made the terms of their relationship clear.
So instead of pushing her with lavish meals and gifts, Simon allowed himself to be pushed, something Jasmine knew he didn’t like. Pulling her lips to his, he chuckled again. “I get it. You’re sleeping with me on your terms, but do you think maybe you could ask for a raise some time soon?”
She wrapped her hands around his thick wrists when he covered her with his body, spreading her legs apart while fighting a groan of unadulterated pleasure. “Why would I do that?”
“So I can have something better to eat than a number three combo at McDonald’s.”
Her smile was peevish. “That’s all I can afford.”
“But it’s not all I can afford, fruitcup.”
“Keep your financials to yourself and learn to love the Quarter Pounder, buddy.”
“If I can love a Quarter Pounder, why can’t you learn to love my personal chef?”
“Because I can’t pay for a personal chef to love.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” He’d given this same argument since they’d begun dating, or whatever they were calling this. Simon just couldn’t grasp the concept of a divorced, working woman’s freedom and all its blissful budgeting on a shoestring.
“You dare say that now when you’re about to tap this?” she said playfully, nuzzling his neck.
“There is that,” he murmured with a husky groan before sinking into her, making her forget Quarter Pounders and budgeting and her rebellious need to keep him at a safe distance.
Frankie hit the diner two days after her scuffle with Nikos a new woman. With her sparkling new attitude, she breezed past the narrow-eyed Chloe without so much as a rumble in her not-so-nervous-anymore stomach.
So, neener, neener, neener.
She had to remind herself sh
e was a new woman when she almost ran smack into Nikos, who was taking inventory. “Morning,” she said with a cheerful smile, the one she’d rehearsed nine hundred gotrillion times in the mirror on her days off. The happy, secure, well-adjusted, “not in need of help from the psych department” smile.
“I suck,” he said, deadpan and somber in all his gorgeousness.
“Did you lose count of the olive jars again? You want help?”
“That’s not what I mean, and I think you know it.”
“Ohhhhh, you mean the other day, right?” she asked, all breezy and carefree as part of her new-woman package. “Forget it. What’s done is done.” She looked for the fresh green peppers in the fridge. “Now, I know Cosmos must need peppers chopped. I heard two orders for omelets on my way into the kitchen. What’s on tap for today, slave driver?”
“Frankie?” He grabbed her arm, swinging her to face him.
She gave his hand a pointed look, lifting her arm in question, returning to her promise to remember he was just a man. No matter how manly. “What? C’mon, haste makes waste.”
“Slow down and listen to me make nice with you for being a jackass. It doesn’t happen often.”
“That you’re a jackass or that you make nice?”
He grinned, warm, sexy. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Mitch and Carrie and Marco and whatever else I didn’t tell you about. I swear in the future, anything Mitch does, if he so much as thinks about behaving badly, when I psychically tap into his mind, you’ll be the first to know.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, thanks, but I don’t care what Mitch has done anymore. I didn’t care as much about what he’d done as about what I didn’t know he’d done. I think it was more about how utterly humiliating it is to be the last one to know what was right under your nose. I felt stupid and blind is all. But I’m over it because his past bad behavior is out of my control. So let’s get on with the business of this thing called slave labor.”
Now he chuckled, too, deep and rich, something she’d missed on her time off. So pathetic, Frankie. “So, friends?”
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