Page 32 of Tempting Frankie
Francesca
I'm lounging on Alexander's ridiculously plush chaise, sipping a glass of fancy ass wine that costs more than it should when my phone buzzes. Kat's name flashes on the screen, and I brace myself for whatever she’s going to say.
Kitty Kat
Sis, you alive? Or did your sugar daddy finally murder you for your organs?
I snort, almost choking. Leave it to my sister to check on me and also throw a jab at me.
All organs accounted for.
The typing bubbles appear immediately.
Prove it. Drinks tonight? I'll even let you pick somewhere fancy, Miss Moneybags.
I hesitate, glancing around the penthouse. It's been a month of designer clothes appearing in the closet, dinners at Michelin-starred restaurants, weekend trips to places I used to only see onsocial media. Part of me wants to pinch myself, make sure I'm not dreaming. The other part knows better than to get used to any of it.
Rain check?
I reply, hating myself a little.
Busy tonight.
With what?
I roll my eyes but can't help the flush creeping up my neck. Kat's not wrong, even if she doesn't know the half of it.
None of your business brat
I expect details eventually. And maybe some hand-me-down Louboutins.
My phone buzzes again. This time, it's Alexander.
My Ex’s Daddy
Wear the blood red dress tonight. Car will pick you up at 8.
No please, no question mark. Just that commanding tone that makes my insides liquify. I hate how much I love it.
I toss back the rest of my glass, trying to quiet the voice in my head reminding me this has an expiration date. In two months, I'll be back to my shitty apartment, and dickless. For now, though, I'm going to live this posh ass life.
I head to the closet, running my fingers over the sinfully soft fabric of the dress Alexander wants me in tonight.
I crank up the stereo system, blasting some Charli XCX that makes me want to move. Screw the dress for now. I've got two hours before I need to transform into Alexander's arm candy, and I'm gonna make the most of it.
I shimmy down the hallway, my hips swaying to the beat. The house manager, Roberta, peeks out from one of the guest rooms, a stack of linens in her hand. She shakes her head, but there's a smile playing on her lips.
“Miss Francesca, you're going to work up quite a sweat,” she calls out over the music.
“That's what they made showers for!” I yell back, twirling past her. My bare feet slide across the polished marble floors as I spin into the living room.
I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Hair wild, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. For a moment, I see the girl I used to be. Before student loans and shitty exes and arrangements with men old enough to be my father.
The thought makes my stomach clench, so I dance harder. I leap onto the sofa, using a rolled-up magazine as a microphone, not caring how off-key I sound.
I dance my way down the hall, past Thomas the security guy who just shakes his head, trying and failing to keep a straight face. Even stick-in-the-mud Matt, Alexander's personal assistant, cracks a grin as I shimmy past his office.
“Having fun, Miss DeLuca?” he asks, raising his voice to be heard.
