Page 32 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire
But, as soon as I ask the question, I realize there is a part of me that would want to know anyway—want to know what this whip-smart, ambitious, big-city marketing executive who can also single-handedly run a donkey sanctuary thinks of me.
She shoves her hands into her pockets and tips her head to one side, giving the question carefulconsideration, as if running me through an assessment program in her head.
“Someone who leaves no footprint.” Her words come out slow and considered as if she’s thought each of them through and chosen them carefully.
I move toward her, drawn to close the gap. “What on earth does that mean?”
“It means that if I woke up tomorrow and found you gone, I’d have literally no way of finding you,” she says. “You leave no trace. Don’t touch the sides.”
I can’t help but chuckle to myself since every condo building I’ve constructed all over Boston definitely has a footprint, definitely impacts people’s lives, and definitely makes me traceable.
As does every TV interview I’ve done alongside the other three owners of the Boston Commoners. Media outlets get a kick out of the odd combo of me, a Hollywood heartthrob, a billionaire lion from theLions’ Denentrepreneur investor show, and a British prince being friends and joint owners of what was the losingest club in Major League Soccer.
They also find our larger-than-life English head coach pretty entertaining.
Anyway, if Frankie finds it hard to trust people, she’s never going to have faith in me if she thinks I’m a ghostlike creature who leaves no shadow and could vanish at any moment. I mean, why would anyone take advice on who to sell their beloved grandpa’s land to from someone they think is an untraceable flight risk?
I need to give her something.
“What’s your number?” I ask, pulling my phone from my back pocket.
“Why?”
“So I can text you and you have mine.”
“Is that a burner?” She gestures to the device in my hand.
“No. It’s my actual phone. That I run my business and my entire life from. You have no idea the hassle it would cause if I changed my number.”
She digs her teeth into her lower lip for a moment before telling me hers.
I send her a text and she takes her phone from her pocket and snickers at it.
“What’s funny?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “A donkey emoji?”
“What else did you expect?”
“You don’t strike me as an emoji kind of guy either.”
“I’m not.” And I really am not. I just couldn’t think of anything to write. And also I thought it might make her laugh. Not because making her laugh fills me with pride and the sound of it is finding a home under my skin, but because the more she likes me, the more she’ll trust me. “You’re obviously an excellent judge of character. And now you’re holding my footprint in your hand.”
Her fingers twitch around her phone as if they really are holding on to a part of me. And my brain can’t help but wonder what it would feel like if they were.
“Anyway, I actually just came to get you to come pick up the hay with me,” Frankie says. “Are you free to go?”
What I really need to do is to reply to our Commoners’ owners’ group text where the other three guys are talking about another club’s offer to buy our captain, and I need to check with Brooke that the toilet supplier for the Pinnacle Residences isn’t still giving us the runaround.
But those things, which would normally be at the top of my list,will have to wait.
“Of course, yes. Let me clean up first.” I hold out my hands that are grimy from the faucet because I couldn’t get any purchase on it in my new stiff and bulky work gloves.
“Help yourself to the bathroom.” She points toward the house. “Just shut the front door behind you when you’re done. I’ll meet you at the truck.”
And she heads off toward the decrepit old two-tone brown and tan F150 that looks like it’s from about 1984.
My God, just look at how those jeans hug her ass, and the pride in those shoulders, and determination in her stride. That is one tenacious woman, with a will of steel to hold onto this place and make it work.
