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Grabbing her arm in a vice-tight grip, Shane dragged her out of the car and up into the house before depositing her on the couch.
“Frankie, I haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet. I’m not ready to deal with you. Sit here and be quiet for a minute.” Scrubbing his face with his hand, he wiped the sleep from his eyes.
“Poor baby hasn’t had his coffee yet.” She gave him a frosty look. “At least you aren’t being held against your will.”
“Francesca.” The warning was clear in his tone.
“Does the truth hurt?”
“I promised to keep you safe.”
“We’ve been over this. I don’t care about your damn promises.”
“No? Then what about yours? You promised to be my wife.”
“You manipulated me into it! Blackmailed me!”
“Blackmailed?”
“Okay, maybe not blackmailed but definitely manipulated.”
“I did no such thing.”
“You… you…” She looked over at Brad, who was pouring a cup of coffee from the Keurig into his mug. A flush crawled up her face. Feeling her gaze, he turned.
“What?” Brad asked, perplexed.
“Good question,” Shane teased. “What was it you were saying, Frankie?”
“Nothing. I was saying nothing.”
“About damn time.” Shane stalked into the kitchen and took down two more coffee mugs. “How do you like your coffee?”
“You want to marry me, and you don’t even know how I like my coffee.” She crossed her arms across her chest in defiance.
“I guess that means you don’t want any.” He put the cup back on the shelf.
“Wait! I take it back. I want coffee, please.”
“Then sit here like a good girl and be quiet for one minute while I make it. How do you take it?”
There were two liquids that soothed Frankie’s soul—good coffee and coconut rum. The coffee in her cup was far from her definition of good. She didn’t like the fast single-serve crap, which took away from the rich body of a good coffee, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, so she drank down the hot, long-lost friend. Her escape plan had failed… miserably. She would need to come up with a new one and fast.
“Father Thomas is on his way,” she overheard Brad telling Shane.
“Thank you for arranging that.”
“Wait. You called Father Thomas?” Putting her coffee cup on the table, she jumped to her feet. Sighing, Shane turned from the kitchen and walked back into the living room.
“Sit down.”
“Why is Father Thomas coming here, Shane?” She didn’t want to hear the answer.
“Why do you think, Frankie?”
“Don’t answer a question with a question.”
“Francesca, I’ve had about enough of your lip”—rubbing his shoulder, he glared at her—“and your teeth for one day.”
