Page 9 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire
She steps inside to tug a jacket from one of the hookson the wall by the door that are laden with a cluttered variety of coats, scarves and hats. Then she kicks off her blue Crocs and pushes her feet into the same boots she was wearing at the coffee shop earlier.
I follow her and drop the cat on the floor. It’s all I can do to stop myself from racing to the dripping kitchen tap to wash my hands.
A quick glance around the place suggests most of it is in no better state of repair. The cabinets look about thirty years old, a couple of the terracotta floor tiles are cracked, and paint is peeling off the scuffed baseboards.
At the far end of the room there’s a dingy sofa and nonmatching armchair, as well as a TV and a couple of side tables with lamps so old they might be about to be cool again.
This is not the home of someone who has the cash to keep this place going, so why on earth is she so adamant about not selling?
The freaking cat is heading right back toward my legs with a lustful look in its eyes. I take a quick step back to avoid it and crash into Frankie, who lets out a little squeal.
“Shit, sorry.” I spin around and instinctively place my hand on her arm.
She freezes and her eyes dart to mine.
For some reason I freeze with her.
Her eyes are most definitely blue—a deep, rich blue, like a warm freshwater pool you’d dive into to shake off a tough day. They’re part startled, part unsure, and part like they’re looking for something.
All words that might form a coherent sentence dissolve in my brain. My mother would say that’s a first.
Then Frankie’s eyelashes flutter a fewrapid blinks and she breaks the silence. “I’m Frankie Channing, by the way.”
“Oh, yeah.” Fuck, yes. I haven’t even introduced myself. “I’m Miller.”
I withdraw my hand from her arm and offer it to her.
Now her eyes leave mine and drift to my hand before she takes it in a brief shake. I’m suddenly aware that my palm is clammy.
“Nice to meet you, Miller,” she says.
“Nice to meet you too, Frankie.”
I loosen my grip but somehow don’t really let go.
She coughs, looks down and slides her hand from mine.
I held on to that for way too long. Is that embarrassment crawling down my spine?
Christ, she’ll never want me hanging around now. She’ll think I’m some lingering-handshake weirdo.
“Let’s go before Thelma molests you again.” She gestures behind me where the clearly not-young cat is angling her head for another leg rub.
When we step outside, Frankie asks, “Are you from around here?”
She nudges Thelma back inside with her foot, provoking a defiant hiss, and pulls the door closed behind us. As it clicks shut, one of the two screws securing the tarnished keyhole plate falls out, bounces off the doormat and clatters onto the concrete step.
“Nope. Boston,” I say, picking up the screw and finger-tightening it back into the lock.
On the way here in the cab I decided to stick with as much of my real story as possible. I’m not an awesome liar.
One time I tried to convince Mom my brother hadtaken the last piece of pie from the fridge not realizing I had a large dollop of whipped cream dribbling down my shirt. I was pie-embargoed for a month. That’s a lesson you don’t forget.
So there’s no point telling Frankie unnecessary fibs that I can’t keep track of, and run the risk of tripping myself up.
“So you don’t lose it.” I gesture at the screw that’s as far in as I can get it. I’ll tighten it all the way down later when she’s shown me where the tools are kept.
“Thanks. Are you planning to commute four hours each way from Boston for every volunteer shift?” She looks up at me out of the corner of her eye and raises an eyebrow. “I mean, I appreciate the dedication, but it seems like a lot.” Then she points toward a large enclosure ahead of us. “We’ll start over there.”
