Page 2 of The Ex Effect
Woodlands was only available because the place recently changed owners, and the new owner wanted to host events. They hadn’t been planning on opening until Christmas, but I’d slap on whatever smile, charm, and elbow grease was needed to make the space work.
My car bumped over the deep pits on the gravel road leading up to the venue. Trees and foliage surrounded me, the unkempt grass spilled onto the path. I pushed my car into park and blew out a low whistle. The place was…okay.At very, very best. It looked like a million other former supper clubs turned into diners spread across the Midwest. Cracked wood siding, a low ceiling, windows that needed a solid cleaning, and a flickering diner sign that was a shade too neon.
But, with the right decorations and lighting, I could make this place damn near charming. Possibly.Hopefully.Largepotted plants, greenery, and strings of white lights could transform almost any area.
The car shook as I cut my engine, and I refrained from making the sign of the cross in gratitude. I was overdue taking it into the shop, but every time I went there, I was out a thousand dollars. This baby was inching toward a hundred and fifty thousand miles, and the last thing I needed was to drop a bunch of cash that I didn’t have.
Outside, the brisk air prickled my neck. I wrapped my scarf tighter and surveyed the space. The property was large enough, with a massive gravel parking lot, an abundance ofNo Smokingsigns, a wooden fence, and a few scattered, cracked wood picnic benches nestled among the trees. The constriction in my chest loosened.
I peeked at my watch and as quickly as the tension had softened, it now hardened again. Ten minutes ahead of time was standard, and this Frankie guy was not here. My foot involuntarily tapped against the earth. Two minutes passed, then three.Unbelievable. I drummed my fingers on my crossed arms. At the four-minute mark, I marched into the restaurant with a huff.
The door weighed as much as a linebacker, and I heaved it open with two hands. The small entryway had a rubber mat over linoleum, low ceilings, and an odd hodgepodge of artwork that gave off the distinct vibe that the owner went to various garage sales and grabbed anything with a wooden frame. Horses, bears drinking pop, a beach scene, two hot-air balloons, and one really large creepy, crying clown with smudged makeup.Yikes.Brown round tables held napkins, ketchup, and mustard in a carrying tray, with stiff metal chairs shoved up to the edge.
The distinct smell of fryer grease and disinfectant from a freshly mopped floor reached my nose. Other than a few women at a table laughing, the place was empty. And eerily quiet. No music, no clanking dishes from customers, nothing.
I stepped to the hostess stand and waited. And waited some more.
The hostess’s legs dangled from a bar stool as she swiped through her phone. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care that I had entered, and I wasn’t sure which one was worse. My dad used to say I had a long list of good traits—smart, organized, driven. Patience wasnoton the list. Five agonizing seconds passed when I cleared my throat. “Excuse me.”Ugh. My tone. I hated the way I sounded, but every second mattered and at this rate this wedding would be a complete disaster if they didn’t hurry the hell up. I breathed out through my nose and softened my jaw. “I have an appointment with the manager.”
“All right.” The hostess peeled herself from her screen and dropped her legs to the floor. “I’ll let her know, but it’ll be a few minutes. You can wait here or outside, or wherever.”
After she shuffled into the back room, I stepped back outside. A wretched, god-awful sound like a muffler fell off an old car boomed so loud through the open land that it shook the fragile diner windows. Dust swooshed through the air like a tornado as the Harley driver pulled into a spot and killed the engine.
Jesus Christ, this guy. Really?Obnoxious. I’d always hated motorcycles. They were loud, dangerous, and most likely part of some nefarious criminal organization. Although, I could admit that stereotype probably stemmed from my odd fascination with the biker showSons of Anarchy.
Was this person really wearing chaps? Actual chaps. The last time I saw that was when I had the extreme misfortune of attending a friend’s bachelorette party where we went to a male strip club in Minneapolis and tossed dollars to men in thongs. Sure, I’m gay as hell, but I could not fathom why these women screamed and cheered at men dangling their junk and gyrating on the floor.Gross.
I shielded my eyes against the sun. Was this Frankie? The guy hopped off his motorcycle and?—
Oops. Facing me was slim hips, strong forearms, broad shoulders, and boobs. Definite, full boobs. Okay, not a guy, or, at least, not male presenting. And damn it, I knew better than to assume gender. Or anything, for that matter. Sure, I may look like the local PTA mom with my cute puffy-sleeved bow shirts and on-point makeup, but people asking if I have a husband annoys the crap out of me.
The person hung their helmet on the bike bar and ran a finger through their dark fringe. They tugged off their riding gloves, shoved them in their back pocket, and stepped toward me.
My breath froze.
No. No… this can’t be right. I blinked at the image. The unmistakable dark chocolate-brown eyes now had soft laugh lines creasing from the sides. The once overly plucked black brows were now full, natural, and thick. Formerly round cheeks still had deep, devastating dimples, but the shape had shifted, the cheekbones more prominent, sharper, and higher. The lashes were still so long they nearly reached her eyebrows. The long dark hair often swept into a ponytail for soccer practice was now short and cropped on the sides.
Flashes ofthatnight, the last time we spoke, pixelated through my mind. High school graduation gowns. Tears streaming down cheeks. Nasty words flung, more cries, and stomps. And my heart shattering.
Fifteen years flew by in a snap.
“Katey?” I finally spit out.
“I go by Frankie now.” Katey—Frankie—tugged on the cuffs of her brown leather coat.
What in the actual hell was happening right now? I was in a weird dream. That was the only explanation. In ten seconds, alarm number one, followed by alarm number two, would blareand I’d jolt from the bed. “You’reFrankie Lee? The photographer?”
When Katey—Frankie—left all those years ago, she was chasing the dream of being a photographer in New York City. And she did it, at least as far as I knew. After four years of loving her, and a lifetime prior of being best friends, Frankie left me and didn’t turn back. Not once, not even a call, like I meantnothing.
Frankie stood before me, her eyes holding that same devilish glint that had captivated me years ago, the same one that had broken my heart when she abandoned me.
“Sure am.” Frankie lifted her head in a quick nod. “Good to see you again, Morgan. Been, what… fourteen, fifteen years?”
I could feel my nostrils flare. The ticking of my heart moved from my chest to my ears, and I needed to rip off my scarf before I overheated. I slammed my arms across my chest and blurted the first thing that came to my mind: “Not long enough.”
TWO
FRANKIE
