Burning Down the Spouse Part 15

Worse, it was the dismal caricature she'd become. One everyone wanted to feed or save or protect. Enough. "You felt sorry for me. So you gave me a job. Thanks. No lie when I say I really appreciate the paycheck, but do me a favor-stop looking out for me and my fragile state, and stick to running diners!"

As she made her way to the employee bathroom to throw some cool water on her face, Frankie made a decision. No more pathetic, loser divorcee in need of everyone's pity and sympathy.

Even if she eventually found out Mitch had tapped every twentyfive-year-old from here to Sheboygan.

Even if.

"You've done it now, brother," Cosmos commented with a wry tone.

Nikos let his chin drop to his chest with a tired sigh. "I made her cry."

"You did. You suck."

"Big," he agreed.

"We told you to tell her."

Nikos nodded his head, picking up the peeler. "You did."

"And now look."

"You know, I'm really sick of Mitch inadvertently f.u.c.king up my love life."

Cosmos frowned. "Uh, sorry? You have no love life. If what you told me about last night with Frankie is true-you blew it, pal. You skipped out on her, resisted your manly urges, whatever-it's exactly what you should have done because for the hundredth time, no good can come from you hooking up with a woman who's on the rebound. Besides, you left the door wide open for Marco and his well-worn coat of pain and self-pity to cloak the fair Frankie and win her heart. There's nothing a chick digs more than a guy with gen-u-ine feelings. She'll be his problem in no time flat. And then you can forget all about Frankie and her issues that you seem to find so irresistible. Did it ever occur to you to maybe date a woman who isn't on the most-wanted list for rebound relationships?"

Nikos yanked another potato from the bag with a rough hand and said with a sharp, unforgiving tongue, "Cos, shut the h.e.l.l up. I mean it. Shut up now."

"I'm just looking out for you the way you seem to want to look out for every woman who needs a knight in shining armor. Not to mention, stray animals, and even drunk gamblers like Hector," he whispered, looking over his shoulder with a guilty glance toward Hector's corner of the kitchen. "Admit it, you're a sucker for anyone who needs help. You've been that way all your life. Stray animals, lost souls-whatever. You're in for saving them."

"And that's a bad thing? Look at how well Hector's turned out."

"You feed the homeless guy who sleeps on the bench outside, Nikos. The point is, you have a savior complex."

"Benny's a good guy. Just down on his luck," he defended. "Mama feeds him, too."

"Look, all I'm saying is you don't need Frankie's s.h.i.t rocking your world, and I'll say that as many times as it takes to get it through your thick skull."

Nikos remained silent, refusing to take his brother's bait. The h.e.l.l he'd let Marco have a crack at the woman he wanted. The. h.e.l.l.

He didn't like that he was coming to want Frankie far more than even he was comfortable with. Forcing himself to leave that car last night had been an act of sheer willpower so physically difficult, he had a sore jaw this morning from clenching his teeth.

Frankie was a woman newly free of the marital ties that bind. One who hadn't yet experienced what her life could be when she found out who she was. A woman who could still possibly have feelings for the man she was married to for eighteen years. He'd been burned by that kind of woman-a woman in transition, on the rebound.

But he didn't want a woman in transition.

He wanted one forever.

And Frankie just wasn't a woman he should be considering to play the role of his partner.

Yet, here he was.

Still.

Considering.

CHAPTER NINE.

From the journal of Frankie Bennett: Oh, I'm not reluctant at all when I write-game on, sistah! No more dastardly deeds, Chloe Whatserfaceopolus. Got that? You've picked the wrong loon with a wooden spoon. Heh. My crazy-it rhymes. Oh, and in the spirit of the season-Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la this, you troublemaker, 'cause I'm gonna rain all over your Silent Night with so much s.h.i.t, you'll pray it's you who's run over by a reindeer instead of Grandma!

Jasmine snuggled closer to Simon, shooing a jealous Gary away. Closing her eyes, she inhaled with a deep, cleansing breath in mind. She wasn't the most experienced woman when it came to keeping things uncomplicated, but she was certainly going to try.

Which meant not reveling in the sheer joy of having a strong, s.e.xy-as-h.e.l.l man holding her against his tight, too-young-for-her body. "You should call Win," she forced herself to say. It was the last thing she wanted, but she was sticking to her guns. A relationship on her terms, and her terms meant no sleepovers for the quarterback.

She wouldn't have any man getting too comfortable in her hard-won s.p.a.ce. This was hers. Paid for with money she earned herself every week. That fact used to make her smile with such pride. Pretty Jasmine making an honest living all on her own without the aid of a sugar daddy. All of her so-called ex-friends who fully expected her to hunt down the nearest senior citizen capable of taking care of her could p.i.s.s off.

Yet lately, since she'd met Simon and they'd culminated this wild, physical thing between them, those very things had taken on a rather narrow, pointless meaning.

Somehow, calling the couch she'd found for such a bargain at the Salvation Army "hers all hers" was no longer as much of a coup as it once was; now, it was-just a couch.

It was her couch. Indeed. She was pathetically proud she'd saved to buy it. Yet who really cared that a couch represented her struggle for independence? Early on in her divorce, the material things she was afforded by her own earnings had left her glowing. Now, other things left her glowing. Other less materialistic more emotionally satisfying things.

And that was becoming d.a.m.ned uncomfortable. She didn't want to feel this way about Simon-or anyone-but most especially the rich, fun-loving Simon. She wanted to live life on her own terms, be free to do as she pleased, when she pleased without having to atone for her every movement. She wanted to lie around in her pajamas and not have to gussy up unless she chose to.

You couldn't do that if you had an anchor around your thigh-even if the anchor was luscious. Even if.

Simon brushed her hair from her shoulder, planting soft kisses on it, working his way down to her nipple. "Why should we wake Win when you have a perfectly nice bed I can sleep in?"

Yeah, Jasmine. Why? "Because you have your own perfectly nice bed, and it's only nine o' clock. I'm sure Win's still up watching Super-nanny . A good thing, too. He could use all the tips she has to offer on parenting a spoiled, out-of-control man-child," Jasmine said, realizing there was no hard, accusatory edge to her tone this time when she teased Simon about being a boy in a man's body.

Simon laughed against her breast, the warm ripple of air making her squirm with delicious antic.i.p.ation. "If you'd just let me, I'd spoil you right along with me."

"I've been spoiled, bad boy. I don't need any man's gifts or trinkets or fancy meals to keep me coming back for more. I come back for more because I choose to come back for more. Period."

The determination in her voice rang sour, even to her own ears. But she couldn't let go of her need to prove she wasn't in this for anything more than the physical pleasure it wrought. If Simon knew how close he was to touching a place in her heart she didn't want touched, he'd have the upper hand.

No can do.

Simon had gone in for the kill on his hunt to date her in a big way. Initially, he'd come off like every other clown who had some cash to throw around. He'd infuriated her from the start. But that fury had turned into a playful game. When she'd finally given in, she'd made the terms of their relationship clear.

So instead of pushing her with lavish meals and gifts, Simon allowed himself to be pushed, something Jasmine knew he didn't like. Pulling her lips to his, he chuckled again. "I get it. You're sleeping with me on your terms, but do you think maybe you could ask for a raise some time soon?"

She wrapped her hands around his thick wrists when he covered her with his body, spreading her legs apart while fighting a groan of unadulterated pleasure. "Why would I do that?"

"So I can have something better to eat than a number three combo at McDonald's."

Her smile was peevish. "That's all I can afford."

"But it's not all I can afford, fruitcup."

"Keep your financials to yourself and learn to love the Quarter Pounder, buddy."

"If I can love a Quarter Pounder, why can't you learn to love my personal chef?"

"Because I can't pay for a personal chef to love."

"You're being ridiculous." He'd given this same argument since they'd begun dating, or whatever they were calling this. Simon just couldn't grasp the concept of a divorced, working woman's freedom and all its blissful budgeting on a shoestring.

"You dare say that now when you're about to tap this?" she said playfully, nuzzling his neck.

"There is that," he murmured with a husky groan before sinking into her, making her forget Quarter Pounders and budgeting and her rebellious need to keep him at a safe distance.

Frankie hit the diner two days after her scuffle with Nikos a new woman. With her sparkling new att.i.tude, she breezed past the narrow-eyed Chloe without so much as a rumble in her not-so-nervous-anymore stomach.

So, neener, neener, neener.

She had to remind herself she was a new woman when she almost ran smack into Nikos, who was taking inventory. "Morning," she said with a cheerful smile, the one she'd rehea.r.s.ed nine hundred gotrillion times in the mirror on her days off. The happy, secure, well-adjusted, "not in need of help from the psych department" smile.

"I suck," he said, deadpan and somber in all his gorgeousness.

"Did you lose count of the olive jars again? You want help?"

"That's not what I mean, and I think you know it."

"Ohhhhh, you mean the other day, right?" she asked, all breezy and carefree as part of her new-woman package. "Forget it. What's done is done." She looked for the fresh green peppers in the fridge. "Now, I know Cosmos must need peppers chopped. I heard two orders for omelets on my way into the kitchen. What's on tap for today, slave driver?"

"Frankie?" He grabbed her arm, swinging her to face him.

She gave his hand a pointed look, lifting her arm in question, returning to her promise to remember he was just a man. No matter how manly. "What? C'mon, haste makes waste."

"Slow down and listen to me make nice with you for being a jacka.s.s. It doesn't happen often."

"That you're a jacka.s.s or that you make nice?"

He grinned, warm, s.e.xy. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Mitch and Carrie and Marco and whatever else I didn't tell you about. I swear in the future, anything Mitch does, if he so much as thinks about behaving badly, when I psychically tap into his mind, you'll be the first to know."

She couldn't help but laugh. "Well, thanks, but I don't care what Mitch has done anymore. I didn't care as much about what he'd done as about what I didn't know he'd done. I think it was more about how utterly humiliating it is to be the last one to know what was right under your nose. I felt stupid and blind is all. But I'm over it because his past bad behavior is out of my control. So let's get on with the business of this thing called slave labor."

Now he chuckled, too, deep and rich, something she'd missed on her time off. So pathetic, Frankie. "So, friends?"

She backed up against the cool exterior of the refrigerator with a grin. "You mean like the kind who call each other on the phone and talk nail polish, Tiger Beat, and Scott Baio crushes? Or the kind that have a peaceful, honest working relationship with no random surprises that leave one another blindsided?" she teased.

"It's a tough choice. I mean, we are talking Scott Baio here, but I'll take peace, honesty, and goodwill toward men for five hundred, Alex."

Frankie stuck out her hand. "Deal."

Nikos took it, entwining his fingers with hers. "Deal. Now in other important news. Christmas," he said, still holding her hand.

"What about it?" she asked, forcing herself to keep her fingers from trembling.

Nikos wiggled his eyebrows. "The Antonakas Christmas bash, ma'am. It's huge. Like invitation-to-the-White-House huge. Well, maybe not that huge, but there are at least as many people at our annual Christmas party as there are at a White House formal. I know it's late in the game and you might already have plans, but I forgot to tell you before your day off. It's Christmas Eve. I know that's tomorrow, but we have tons of food, family by the busload, more nieces, nephews, and grandkids than ten daycare centers, and more chaos than a three-ring circus. It's loud, bad for calorie counting, and there's usually a drunken brawl with ringside seats, and we try to keep it all inclusive for every faith. It's also one of the rare few days a year when the diner's closed. And of course, both you and Gail are invited. All the employees and their families usually at least do a drive-by if they have other plans."

Of which she had none, and that hadn't depressed her much at all until Nikos described his family's celebration. Then disappointment crept into her thoughts. Employees. Know your place, Bennett. Got it.

Frankie's smile waned, but her tone, she was proud to say, remained steady as a rock. "Sounds like fun. I'm in, but I wouldn't count on Gail. She was hedging about some invitation her gentleman caller extended to her, but she didn't want to leave me alone. She'll be happy to know I have plans. You know, the employee kind. So sure, I'd love to come. Need help prepping for it? Bring something? Maybe something with goat cheese and figs?" she joked.

Clearly, he'd missed her emphasis on "employee" because he skipped right over it and zeroed in on the party planning. "Nope. The rest of the family gives us a day off and they do the cooking. Anyway, good deal. So now that we've made nice, I have some details to work out for tomorrow's party."

"Then I'll get to work," she replied with forced good cheer.

By her late-morning break, Frankie smiled with the satisfaction of a job well done. A mountain of chopped onions and garlic even Barnabas couldn't criticize lay in wait for Cosmos to marinate his next batch of brisket in, and she'd reorganized the fridge so each item he needed was at the ready.

The rumble of her stomach led her to find Voula and her infamous meatloaf. "Look at my Frankie," she said with a gleam in her eye. "Now Mama doesn't have to force her to eat. The horse finds the gra.s.s all by herself."

"Water. You're leading a horse to water, and if I eat any more of your water, I'll need a bigger car," Frankie said, smiling back, giving her a squeeze to her shoulders.

Voula pinched her at the waist. "In no time we have to buy you bigger pants. That makes my c.o.c.kles warm. Now eat and make Mama smile." She winked, piling the meatloaf and fries high on the plate, then dousing it with an overflowing ladle of brown gravy.

Frankie took the plate, and she and Voula headed to Nikos's office, where he'd kindly offered to let her bring Kiki in for the afternoon while Gail was in Atlantic City on a senior overnight trip. As she walked, she scooped up a heaping forkful to stuff it in her mouth with a blissful sigh. "Voula, you should market this. It's the best meatloaf I've ever eaten. It's simple and rustic and there are so many flavors, my mouth does the happy dance. Trust me when I tell you, when I was married to Mitch, I tried a million different ideas, variations on the original theme, trying to make the perfect meatloaf. They all paled in comparison."

Voula's eyebrow rose as she made her way around Nikos's desk to gather up Kiki from a napping Barnabas's lap. "You mean mine is better than the bad Mitch's?"

Frankie giggled, smiling at how comfortable Kiki was with Voula. "Yours is better than some of the best chefs in the world, Voula. It's like uber-meatloaf."

She frowned, her round face wrinkling. "Uber?"

"Like the creme de la creme. The best," Frankie a.s.sured her around a crispy-tender French fry.

Voula nodded, as if she knew she had the world at her feet with just one bite of her concoction of ground beef and spices. She dug around in her ap.r.o.n pocket, pulling out a treat for Kiki, who took it with her usual somber grat.i.tude. "It is a secret I tell you one day, Frankie." She chuckled, tapping the dog's nose with affection. "But you know, my memory is so bad, I have to look at the recipe every time I make."

Frankie gave Kiki a quick kiss and waved a fork at Voula on her way out of the office, plate in hand. "Whatever's in it, it's hardcore, and you should guard the secret with your life."

Voula's chuckle followed her out into the dining area where she went in search of her bottle of water and her latest magazine endeavor into finding a hobby, poetry writing.

"Frankie?"

A foreboding chill of unease skittered up her spine. No. It couldn't be. How? And more important, why?

"Frankie?" An all-too-familiar hand tapped her shoulder.

Dear Universe, would it be an insult to my mother if I legally changed my name? I don't think she'd be too upset with me, seeing as each time someone says it, the destruction of my fragile psyche and my newfound happy place typically occur.

d.a.m.n it all. Just when she was getting her groove back, or if not her groove, then at least a safe distance from the ledge she'd so precariously teetered on-in walks the one person who almost sent her over the edge.