The Worst Best Man(56)
It was a cheery if not chic space. Just last year Frankie had come in on a Sunday to help Brenda and her husband Raul paint the industrial gray walls a nice, clean white. They’d decorated with art by local Brooklynites. Paintings of storefronts, sketches of the skyline and streets. Brenda had added a veritable garden of plants for pops of green and “air filtering.”
“Girl, you are going to freeze to death walking to work,” Brenda tut-tutted.
Frankie laughed and unwound the wool scarf from her neck, looping it over the coat rack. After last night, she felt she had heat to spare for the six-block walk having taken so much of Aiden’s.
“I like walking to work. Because the walk allows me to do this.” She handed over the small green tea she’d picked up for Brenda.
The woman wiggled her fingers and reached for the cup. “Gimmie! Forget what I said. Walk all you want. Who cares about frostbite when you bring me green tea?”
“How did Daisy Scouts go last night?” Frankie asked, shrugging out of her coat and carrying her bag over to her desk.
Brenda had been called to babysit her granddaughter’s Daisy troop when the scout leader—Brenda’s daughter—came down with a case of front row seats to see Bon Jovi.
“I drank half a bottle of wine after they left. Thirteen seven-year-olds.” Brenda shook her head and then patted her hair to make sure it was still in place. She wore her dark hair in dozens of tiny braids coiled in a bun at the base of her neck. “My dining table looks like a glitter bomb went off.”
“I warned you not to do sparkly or sticky crafts!”
“Lesson learned,” Brenda sighed. “What about you? How was your mysterious dinner date?”
Frankie had been cagey about her evening plans, which had raised Brenda’s red flag immediately.
“It was uh… good.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Brenda said.
Frankie felt the color on her cheeks rising. She’d donned a turtleneck today to cover the bruise between her neck and shoulder where Aiden had gotten just a little overzealous with his mouth. She’d have to lay down the law before next time: No visible hickeys.
The thought that there would be a next time? Now her cheeks were flaming.
“Girl, the shades of pink you’re turning are making me very curious.”
“I had dinner with… the guy I’m… my boyfriend?” That’s technically what he was. Wasn’t it? It was too much of a mouthful to say the guy I’m seeing temporarily and enjoying naked.
“Boyfriend?” Brenda perked up. She popped the lid off her green tea and blew on the steam. “Details, please.”
“Don’t we have to get ready for the social media workshop?” Frankie asked hopefully. She pulled her laptop out of her bag and booted it up.
“The one you have giver every month for the past year? I think we’ve got it down to a science. Spill.”
What could she possibly say that wouldn’t sound like she’d lost her damn mind? My boyfriend and I are just having sex until he gets bored and moves on. But it’s cool because he’s promised me a ton of orgasms and anything I want. Nope. That wouldn’t do.
“His name is Aiden, and we met at the wedding.”
“He must be one of the hoity-toity crowd if he was at Pruitt’s wedding,” Brenda guessed.
“I don’t really know what he does,” Frankie said evasively. It wasn’t exactly a lie. Just because Aiden had more money in his couch cushions than she did in her savings account didn’t mean that she exactly grasped what he did to earn those piles of cash.
“That’s not like you. Usually you have a dossier of every dateable candidate before you even say yes to the first date,” Brenda pointed out.
“I’ll have to get on that dossier,” Frankie promised.
“What’s his last name?” Brenda asked.
“Kilbourn. Aiden Kilbourn.” Shit was about to go down.
Brenda shoved a finger in her ear above the neat rows of tiny gold hoops that she wore in her lobe. “I’m sorry. It sounded to these old ears like you said Aiden Kilbourn.”
“You’ve heard of him?” Frankie asked innocently. Of course, she’d heard of him. Everyone in the five boroughs knew of the Kilbourns and their Manhattan domination.
Brenda bustled back to her desk, her nails clicking on the keyboard. She was shaking her head and muttering. Frankie slunk into the tiny kitchenette and stored her lunch in the fridge. “Morning, Raul,” she called through his open door.
Raul was a man of small stature and big heart. He also dressed to the nines in vibrant colored pullover sweaters and nerdy glasses. His hair was going silver. He always made time for anyone who graced his doorway and considered himself an aficionado on bottles of wine below twenty dollars.
“Morning, Frankie. You ready for the workshop today?”
“All set. We’ve got ten signed up, which probably means eight will show.” One of Frankie’s specialties was teaching social media marketing to local business owners or employees that were hired to take care of Facebook pages and Instagram accounts. She ran the Facebook account for her parents’ deli after her father had blatantly refused to learn how to turn on a computer. Her mother was quick on an iPad but had no desire to “blab about every damn thing” she did in her day.