Page 3 of My Dearest Mackenzie

“Hey, hey, Mr. Mackenzie, hey, Mr. Miller, excuse me.” A shorter blond with all the right curves and an even more fabulous smile yanked on my arm.

I wasn’t immune to advances, but this didn’t feel much like a come-on. More like a summons to stand in front of a jury. “I’m sorry, but a little space, please.” I spoke softly. Of course, this tiny female wasn’t an imminent risk to me, but I never wanted to be viewed as one to her. Closeness sometimes equaled threat, my Southern gentleman of a coach told us in college, and I’d taken it to heart. Somewhere deep in my dark soul, I was a gentleman.

The petite woman took a step backward, but then firmly planted herself and eyed me up and down. Her hair was ironed straight, the smallest curl starting to perk up by her ear, the telltale signs she’d blown out her waves. A small huff of breath released from her mouth before she spoke. “Mr. Miller,” she said as if this was a pertinent matter.

“Mack, not Mr. Miller. That was my dad. And honestly, never Mackenzie. Ever,” I corrected her, thinking this must be my infamous visitor from the morning. “Frances, I assume.” I felt my eyebrow raise.

“Frankie to almost everyone. Frances Burns.” She held out her hand.

I slid my hand in hers—the gesture meant to be professional, yet it felt more provocative than an invitation to jump into bed together. Something scintillating wafted between us, and I waved it away with my imagination. I didn’t mix business and pleasure.

“What can I do for you, Miss Burns?” I returned my hand to my side.

“Congratulations. I’m sorry to barge in on your party, but your assistant scheduled me for October, and that simply wasn’t going to work.”

“You seem to be barging into several places today. My office, the mall. Where’s next?”

A sliver of a smile crept up her face, and there were a few crinkles on the sides of her eyes. As I watched her chest rise and fall, I tried to calculate how old Frances Burns was. I’d put my money on thirty-eight…maybe -nine.

“Nowhere, thanks. I found what I was looking for…”

“Did you want to try the perfumery? I know they’re booked for a few weeks, but judging by your stalking tendencies, I could arrange for you to go. You know, so you don’t harass the manager.”

Milly’s Perfume Lounge was fully my concept, and if I was truly honest, my baby. I’d turned my family’s skin care line into the top of the luxury cosmetics totem pole, and then started adding beauty outposts in high-end malls and shopping areas. First was Silky Skin, and now Milly’s, whose fifth store was opening today in Westchester. My dad never believed in the idea all the way to his deathbed, but I wasn’t up for thinking about him today.

“No. I mean, it looks lovely, but that’s not what I came for. It seems you and I have mutual history, and—”

“Have we met?” I was starting to become equal parts intrigued and annoyed. I needed to get back to the city, but this woman had me mesmerized for no reason whatsoever.

“We haven’t met,” she said while scrunching her brow. “My grandpa recently died, and he left the world carrying a torch for your grandmother.”

Now I was beginning to think this woman was taking me for a fool, which I certainly was anything but.

“You mean, my grandmother, who this store behind me is named for?” I half turned, catching a glimpse of the Tiffany blue speckled exterior, the store name written in cursive across the top. It was meant to look whimsical and classy at the same time.

“Your grandma, Rose Miller, who, I know from Google, your family called Milly. But my grandfather referred to her as ‘my Rosie.’”

“Listen, Frances—Frankie—it’s been nice of you to find me, but I can promise you I never once heard anyone call my grandmother Rosie. In fact, she would’ve probably punched them in the jaw, let alone someone who added my before Rosie.”

I took a closer look at the woman in front of me, wearing a pencil skirt and coral-colored blouse. Her green eyes were carefully made up and lips a shade lighter than the silk in her top—hey, I worked in makeup. “Maybe on another day, a different time or place, we would have hit it off, but using my grandmother as bait is a firm no from me.” I turned to walk away, and I’ll give it to the peanut, she grabbed the fabric of my suit.

“Can’t you at least listen to me? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for weeks.”

I stared at where her manicured hand clasped onto my arm, a million retorts running through my head, including something about the cost of the suit. Then, a look in her eyes, something far-off or nostalgic, caught me and I sucked back any agitation.

“Why don’t we go to my car? And you can meet with me there and tell me about your grandfather and this Rosie theory. My driver, Alex, will be with us, so it’s safe.”

A visible sigh of relief flowed out of her chest, and I watched her fingers slide away from me. “I’m not worried about you. I do kickboxing.”

That was her response. Seriously, she did kickboxing.

All I could manage was a nod, and I started moving toward the exit.

Outside the mall, Alex had the SUV idling, and before he had a chance to get out I opened the door and slipped in to the far seat. “So you don’t have to slide,” I explained to my guest.

Frankie hoisted her tiny frame into the mammoth vehicle and sat in the seat next to me.

“Alex, this is Miss Burns. She has some information for me. Feel free to stay or go get a coffee. Frankie does kickboxing, so we are safe and sound.”

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