Page 39 of Say You Will

I absolutely cannot. Bronwyn’s marriage isn’t on track yet. My sister’s formerly secret husband needs support, whether he likes it or not.

“Something wrong with your bed, Priester?” I ask, voice deliberately mild.

“None of your business.”

“Bronwyn’s well-being is my business, and since you are part of that equation, I disagree. However, I’m a man who knows my limitations. I suppose you need a woman’s touch to encourageyou to open up and better express your feelings. I happen to have brought the perfect person along with me for that job.”

A thunderous scowl settles on his face. “What are you talking about?”

I lower my eyelids to half-mast and move my lips into a smile as I turn my head and call, “Grandma Miller, Bronwyn’s husband is in the family room. He’s excited to meet you.”

Dean doesn’t say another word. He’s too busy scrambling to cover his junk with his pillow before Grandma makes it in here.

Grandma Miller, all five feet zero inches of pure energy, barrels in behind me and straight over to the sofa. The contrast of the two sides of my extended family often amuses me. My father’s mother glides when she walks, even at eighty-four years old. Grandma Miller . . .bops.

Dean flinches when she plops down next to him and inspects his shoulder. He’s a big guy. As a former Army Ranger, he also took some damage while he was active duty. Those scars are a testimony to a great deal of pain and several surgeries. That, and the fact that I had a private investigator dig into every aspect of the man’s history are enough for me to figure out the PTSD and tragic family backstory he’s hiding from my sister.

Part of me even understands his behavior. However, I can’t admit that I know what I do without also admitting to what my mother would refer to as “a gross invasion of privacy.” I call it common fucking sense when we’re allowing someone to become a member of this family, and my father agrees.

“My goodness, you’re a big one, aren’t you? Call me Grandma . . .”

I’d like to give Dean hell right now, or, at the very least, irritate him. My sister, without a doubt, has hurt feelings that he slept down here, but Grandma has him blushing like a fourteen-year-old girl. So, I let her do her thing and make my way down the hallway, through the kitchen, and out to the back porch.

Breath fogging in the crisp morning air, I do a quick security scan, then lean against the white railing as I check my phone. As expected, there’s no message from Franki, but since I’m here and not sitting across the breakfast table from her, reaching out is the reasonable next step.

According to my father, I should be easing into this, not declaring an end goal at the start, which, apparently, is too calculated and not “organic” enough. Therefore, I’ve spent the last week forcing myself to move at a snail’s pace. Despite my frustration, I’ve never had more fun in my life. Even when we’re working on different things and in my office versus home, it’s been remarkable to have her nearby. I catch myself smiling multiple times a day.

I tap the side of my phone and consider what to type. It’s surprisingly difficult to decide. Finally, with a shrug, I type:Good morning

I wait with my gut in knots for her to respond.

After a few moments, three dots dance across my screen, then her greeting appears.

Franki: Good morning

Her text includes a sun emoji and a smiley face surrounded by hearts.

Are those emojis a mystical feminine indication of romantic interest or is this the kind of text she sends to all her friends? I wait, hoping she’ll start a conversation. When she doesn’t, I blow out a breath and dive in. I figure I’ll start with the same thing I would if she were in front of me.

Me: How did you sleep last night?

As I wait for her reply, I reach into my pocket to run my thumb across the irresistible lure of Franki’s panties. That bit of lace has turned out to be far more effective than any fidget spinner I’ve carried in the past. I told myself I’d leave them in my suitcase, but I changed my mind. I like that little scrap of lace.

This morning, I was disappointed to realize they no longer smell like her laundry detergent or whatever soap or lotion or . . . whatever it is she uses that makes her smell the way she does. They had a lightly feminine fragrance when I’d inadvertently stolen them. Now, they smell like my laundry. Maybe when she gets here, I’ll slip these ones back into her luggage and take a new pair in exchange.

When I’m done with our morning chat, I’ll need to get to work making preparations. I may not be able to leave Blackwater right now, but it sure as hell doesn’t mean I’ll be spending another night without Franki.

twelve

Franki

This Is Me | Kesha

Icheck the timeon my phone before sliding it into my bag and taking a sip from my sweating water glass as Penelope Stanton breezes into our breakfast date thirty-two minutes late. At my finger wave, Pen flips her honey-blonde hair over her shoulder, sashays over, and leans down to give me an air kiss. “Mwah.”

I smile. “How are you?”

My former boarding school roommate seats herself with a swish of expensive ivory fabric and strong perfume. “I’m verywell.” She holds out her left hand, and a flashy diamond sparkles on her finger.

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