Page 62 of Tempting Frankie
I pull up the file, my eyes scanning the names. Atticus Reid. Where the fuck was that asshole all night? I didn't see hide nor hair of him, and trust me, I would've noticed. His ego's so big it has its own gravitational pull, and I’m never bored when he’s fucking around. The closest thing I could call a friend, I suppose.
My name's next on the list. Alexander Steele, in bold black letters that might as well be etched in stone. But it's the name right below mine that stops my heart dead in its tracks.
Cameron Steele.
“No,” I breathe, the word barely a whisper in the silence of my office. “No fucking way.”
But there it is, clear as day. My son's name, right under mine. Cameron, who has a talent for leaving chaos and broken hearts in his wake.
Cameron, Francesca's ex-boyfriend.
The pieces click into place with sickening clarity. Francesca's sudden withdrawal, her need to get away. The haunted look in her eyes.
“That little shit,” I snarl, slamming my fist on the desk hard enough to rattle my coffee mug. “What the fuck did he do?”
I'm on my feet before I realize it, pacing the length of my office.
Forcing myself to take a deep breath, I try to think rationally. Okay, so Cameron was there. That doesn't necessarily mean anything happened. Maybe Francesca didn't even see him.
Yeah, and maybe I'll sprout wings and fly to the fucking moon.
Well, time to go fucking put the sperm I should have deposited on his mother's back in his fucking place.
I should have handled him honestly fucking years ago.
Spoiled rich boys grow into spoiled adults sometimes no matter what you do or how much you try and make them work for it.
As long as they have someone enabling them or babying them.
Like his fucking mother does.
Chapter 22
Francesca
SEVEN DAYS LEFT
I'm sprawled on our lumpy couch, buried under a mountain of blankets that smell faintly of Kat’s weed and desperation. It's been exactly twenty-three hours and seventeen minutes since I last saw Alexander, not that I'm counting or anything.
“Frankie, you gotta eat something,” Kat says, waving a slice of pizza under my nose. “I got your favorite—extra cheese, extra grease, extra regret.”
I grunt and burrow deeper into my blanket cocoon. “Not hungry.”
“Bullshit.” She flops down next to me, jostling the couch and sending a wave of nausea through my stomach. “Come on, spill. What's got you looking like someone ran over your favorite heels and then backed up to finish the job?”
I want to tell her everything. But the words stick in my throat. If I say it out loud, it becomes real.
“It's nothing,” I mumble. “Just…stuff.”
Kat snorts. “Yeah, and I'm the fucking Queen of England. Try again, sis.”
My phone buzzes, and I can't resist peeking. It's Alexander.
I hope you're taking care of yourself, little one. Remember, your body is a temple, and I'm its most devoted worshipper. Don't make me come over there and force-feed you myself.
A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. Even from a distance, he knows exactly what to say to make me feel both cherished and slightly turned on.
“Ooh, is that Daddy Warbucks?” Kat waggles her eyebrows, trying to snatch my phone. “Let me see what's got you blushing like a virgin on prom night.”
