Tiffany’s gaze swept over Frankie slowly. “You’re wet.”
Before I could say anything, Frankie stepped completely from behind me, her small hand sliding into the back pocket of my jeans. “I am, Tiffany. That’s what usually happens when someone… falls into the water.”
The look she gave me, all sultry fire, suggested she was wet for an entirely different reason.
Tiffany got an outraged look on her face, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. One of the groomsmen snorted into his drink.
Frankie just grinned and leaned in closer.
“Maxwell Wilder, you get the girl straight into a shower.”
Before anything else could be said, my mother appeared. Ruth Wilder never fit into the polished image my aunt and cousins tried to project. She wore practical boots, handled her own business, and saw through bullshit faster than a chainsaw through pine.
Frankie made a choking sound beside me.
“Well? Off with the both of you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I smiled at her and grabbed Frankie’s hand, pulling her quickly to the elevators.
As the doors closed behind us, Frankie dropped her forehead against the wall. “Oh my God.”
I leaned back against the railing, watching her. “You did fine.”
“Your family is terrifying.”
“I warned you.”
She straightened, pointing a finger at me accusingly. “I accidentally flirted with you in front of your mother and it’s all your fault.”
“I like it when you flirt with me.” That brought another blush of red to her cheeks.
The elevator dinged and I ushered her out, still grinning. The suite door shut behind us with a heavy click and just like that, the playful energy vanished.
Because now we were alone.
Again.
Frankie swallowed hard before grabbing her overnight bag. “I’m going to change.”
Then she practically sprinted into the bathroom.
It didn’t take long for both of us to shower and change into dry clothing. I wore a pair of dress slacks and a button-down shirt that I’d left opened at the throat. Frankie emerged from the bathroom wearing a pair of black form-fitting slacks and a dark blue blouse that flowed over her curves. The slacks hugged her hips and thighs showing off the solid, honest strength of her build that drive me absolutely crazy.
When we walked into the private dining room, the silence was instantaneous. My grip tightened on Frankie’s hand, my protective instincts flaring. It was the silence of a group of people trying to figure out where to place a woman who refused to play by their rules.
“Max.” My Aunt Claire, Leo’s mother, called out. Her voice dripped with artificial sweetness as she looked Frankie up and down. “You’ve certainly come... prepared, haven’t you dear? Are we expecting a plumbing emergency during dessert?”
Leo let out a chuckle. “Give her a break, Mother. She probably hasn’t ever been to a dinner like this before. It’s abit different from the Friday night special at the diner, isn’t it, Frankie?”
A few of the bridesmaids let out a tinkle of laughter — that thin, glass-shattering sound that women make when they think they’ve found someone they can look down on.
I pulled out Frankie’s chair, and she sank down with a fluid grace that made the women around her look stiff and brittle. She looked at Claire with a level of boredom that let me know everyone in the room had underestimated her, including myself.
“I didn’t realize the goal was to look decorative with no substance.” She picked up her napkin and shook out with a flourish.
A few people around the table shifted uncomfortably.
“It’s about the occasion, Frankie. It’s about showing a little refinement. But I guess that’s a hard concept to grasp when you spend your days counting screws.”
