Burning Down the Spouse Part 16

She sucked in a breath, mentally arming for battle.

Okay, Frankie, time to man up. In the spirit of this changed-woman gig you've hired on to-face the ex. Like a big girl. Like you mean it.

Like the p.r.i.c.k owes you money.

Her turn was a slow execution while she composed her face, forcing her body language to express an air of casual indifference. "Mitch."

He smiled, that charming "come let me show you my spiderweb" smile. Nothing about him had changed. He was still handsome and camera perfect. His periwinkle blue shirt had not a crease in it, and his steel gray silk trousers were as smooth as gla.s.s. "It's so good to see you, Frankie." Mitch opened his arms as though she'd fall right back into them.

At one time, maybe as little as just five months ago, maybe, just maybe, she might well have dived back into the shallow end of the pool. Even with his infidelity, if only to find comfort in the routines of her old life with him and not to have to face life alone.

Yet, seeing him now, she was never so glad she'd slept her postdivorce trauma almost entirely away. The only emotion she could summon for Mitch was distaste and a mild case of anxiety. Anxiety that had nothing to do with his physical presence but rather stemmed from her question as to what exactly he wanted.

Booyah for time and distance and oh, yeah, functioning brain matter.

Frankie took a step back, placing her half-eaten meatloaf on the front counter. "How did you find me?"

His smile upped its wattage. "What difference does it make? I'm here now."

As though that made everything all right as rain. "Phew, thank G.o.d, right? I mean, how was I going to go on breathing like I have for the past seven months without you?" She raised a condescending eyebrow to pack her punch.

Mitch chose to ignore her snipe, and instead, sat down on one of the counter stools, laying his forearm beside his identical, as yet untouched plate of meatloaf. "Can we talk?"

Frankie's head c.o.c.ked in an absurd parody of "what the f.u.c.k?" "About?"

He patted the stool next to his in a gesture of friendly warmth. "What's been going on in your life. How you're doing. You know, conversations people have when they haven't seen someone they care about in a long time."

People you care about? Seriously? Oh, tongue don't fail me now. "When you find that someone who cares about me, have your people call my people. Until then, go away."

"Aw, Frankie. We have some hard feelings between us, don't we?"

"Well, they're not soft and squishy."

Mitch gave her his best "I haz a sad" expression. "Can't we let bygones be bygones?"

"Oh, they're bygone. All gone, in fact. Now go back home to Bamby."

"Bamby and I are over."

"Did she find out about Carrie?" Frankie asked like b.u.t.ter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

"Carrie?"

Frankie marveled at how dumbstruck his perfectly aged face appeared. How many women had there really been before Bamby? Something to ponder as she sent him packing. "I know how hard it must be to keep track of all the female pairs of eyes you've wobbled," she sympathized, letting her words drip with false consolation. "Carrie was a woman you met right here in this diner. A foodie, so to speak. A foodie married to someone else. But that's all water under the proverbial bridge now, Mitch. The past is the past and all that jazz. I don't know why you're here or how you found me, and frankly, I don't give a prost.i.tute's checkup why, because we have nothing to say to each other. Now, you're interrupting my lunch hour. Go. Away."

Mitch's face went hard for a moment, before he recovered and slapped on his smile especially made for his fans. The "I am the great chef and you are the minion" smile. "I can't believe you're working in a diner." He pushed his food around his plate, wincing as though the mere idea that the food didn't cost a hundred bucks physically hurt him.

"I can't believe you have the b.a.l.l.s to mock my job or the food here. First of all, that's the best meatloaf you'll ever eat, Chef Mitch. So if you plan to be insulting, take it elsewhere or I will bring my wooden spoon out of retirment. Second of all, at least here the only monstrous ego I have to contend with is the homeless guy's out front who claims I'm blocking his sun when I park in the s.p.a.ce in front of his bench. Believe me when I tell you, being employed here is like rainbows and rocking horses compared to working for you."

But Mitch was ignoring her again. He'd decided to brave a bite of food for heathens and was too busy making groans of chef pleasure. "This is amazing." Mitch held up a forkful of meatloaf. "Just amazing."

Frankie gave him a sour glare. "Sometimes food for heathens can be that way."

"Any chance I could get the recipe?" he asked, licking the fork like a cat licking cream from his whiskers.

Beyond flabbergasted at Mitch's bold request, Frankie held herself away from the counter with stiff arms. "So you can tell the world you created it like you did with all of my recipes for the show? Fat chance, Mitch. Besides, it's a family secret, and even if I did know it, I certainly wouldn't give it to you so you could claim it as your own stroke of genius."

"How's my Kik?"

"Your Kik? You mean the dog you cared so much about you had a clause put in our divorce that said you wouldn't be held responsible for any of her veterinary bills? That Kik?"

His face didn't change, but his eyes shifted. "I loved Kiki," he defended so weak and insincere, it was all Frankie could do not to gouge his eyes out with her fork.

She shook her head with an angry swish. "No, you loved the ratings she brought the show. You loved letting everyone believe the PETA-loving Mitch had saved her. But we both know the truth about that, don't we?"

His mouth thinned, but only for a moment before he took his next turn in his attempt to keep things light. "So, created any interesting recipes for your new job?"

Frankie's eyes narrowed. Now she knew what this was about. Oh, yes indeedy. Mitch was recipe dry. What he lacked in food creativity, he'd made up for in charm, and that was how he'd nabbed the show at Bon Appet.i.t. Because although she hated to cook, she had once loved to blend spices and create concoctions for Mitch. She'd had a good sense of what worked and what didn't. She was also a master at subst.i.tution when they re-created a recipe and couldn't decipher a spice or ingredient. So sayeth the great and powerful Mitch.

Her eyebrow shot up. "What's the matter, Mitch? Running out of new and original recipes for the show?"

"I miss your input." Mitch shot her a remorseful glance.

"No, you miss me doing all the work. Too bad you and Bamby broke up. Maybe she could have helped you with your lack of originality." So shazam.

With a lean into her, Mitch's eyes feigned contrition. "I admit I've had a setback or two. Ratings . . . well, they've been . . . Never mind." He shooed the sentiment away as though he hoped she'd wring it out of him. When she remained silent, he added, "Maybe you'd like to come back and consult? I know Bon Appet.i.t would love to have you."

"I'd rather be hooked for cash," was her dry response. One that surprised even her. "I like my job here, and I like the people I work with. Being left high and dry without a pot to p.i.s.s in made me realize I'd rather be poor than be your wife."

Oh, revelation. It was true. She was beginning to love more than just Nikos's hot abs and suh-weet a.s.s. She was in love with his family, their love of one another, their laughter, and even their bold, honest opinions. She even loved getting up at four in the morning to be in by five. Okay, maybe she didn't love it, but it had come to represent a labor of her love for these people who gave her a reason to want to get up.

"You don't really mean that . . ."

Mitch had said that often in their marriage, and she'd let herself believe it. But not anymore. "Oh, on the contrary. You can bet your bippy I do. Now for the last time, go away!" She hissed the words as quietly as she could, attempting to slide away from him to the next stool over.

But Mitch grabbed hold of her sweater, tugging her back to him, leaving her pressed against his body. "This is a public place, Frankie. I have every right to be here, honey." The words themselves might be threatening, but they had a seductive hint to them she wasn't liking.

"Yeah, and it's my public place, and if I say you go, you go, honey," Nikos said from behind them, a clear threat in his words.

Frankie swung her head around to find Nikos, hands on his lean hips, an angry scowl tightening his usually relaxed face. Her first inclination was to stop Nikos from rescuing her one more time, but that notion fled, because seriously, her radiant warmth over having a real live hero was winning the race against her new-woman independence.

Mitch swiveled on his stool, waving his fork around to point it directly at Nikos. "Do you know who I am?"

Oh, the celebrity card. Well played, but clearly not making the intended impact with Knight In Shining Armor Nikos.

"We have a problem here?" Cosmos growled.

"No," Frankie began, holding up a hand. "It's okay-I'll handle-"

"I think we do. I'm being hara.s.sed by the pseudo Calvin Klein model," Mitch said caustically. "Maybe his jeans are so tight he's lost his ability to behave properly in a social setting."

Uh, eek.

The situation went from mildly threatening to all-out warfare when Cosmos gathered Mitch up by the collar of his wrinkle-free, periwinkle blue shirt, pushing Frankie away from Mitch and smack into Nikos. "Yeah? Well, I'm Calvin's little brother, and you're not welcome in this diner. If I were you, I'd hit the bricks that led you here."

Mitch bl.u.s.tered, his pa.s.sive face going from pale to an angry crimson red. "Take your hands off me!"

Out of nowhere, Voula was sprawled across the top of the counter, hip deep, waving her rolling pin as flour spewed in the air, with Barnabas right behind her. "You go away, bad Mitch, or I show you what I do with this rolling pin!" she shouted.

Barnabas tugged at Voula, but not to thwart her efforts to clock Mitch. Nay, he wanted a shot at him, too. He shook the three-p.r.o.nged fork from the kitchen at Mitch's shoulder. "Go back to your TV kitchen, Mr. Fancy Pants, and you leave our Frankie alone!"

Nikos diffused the situation with two hands by s.n.a.t.c.hing Voula's rolling pin away from her and simultaneously latching onto Cosmos, then blocking Barnabas. "Knock it off. All of you!" he roared, making Frankie glad the lunch hour hadn't quite begun. "Mitch, take it on out of here, and don't come back. If you bother Frankie again, it'll be your a.s.s on my plate! Now get the h.e.l.l outta my diner!"

Mitch shoved his way between Cosmos and Nikos, yanking at his shirt with an angry hand to straighten it as though someone lesser than him had touched him. "I'll have you arrested, you animals! This was a.s.sault!"

Cosmos opened his mouth, but Nikos clamped it shut with just one glare, pulling Frankie tight against his strong side. "You be sure and get my name right when you file your complaint, Bennett. It's Nikos Antonakas. Write it down now. One O, three A's in my last name. Or do you want Frankie to do it for you? You know, because you're incapable of wiping your own a.s.s without an a.s.sist."

Mitch shoved his way toward the doors of the diner, brushing against the small Christmas tree with so much force it fell over in a heap of crashing gold bulbs and sprays of tinsel.

Chloe backed away from the corner she was skulking in, but not before a look pa.s.sed between her and the retreating Mitch that Frankie didn't have time to question. "You'll hear from my attorneys!" he yelped into the cold rush of air.

Frankie was speechless-mortified at the plate of meatloaf dripping down the front of the counter in globs of ground beef and gravy. Voula huffed her fury as Barnabas slammed the heavy fork down on the counter. Cosmos's nostrils flared, and Nikos's jaw clenched.

Tears for the trouble she'd brought welled in her eyes, fl.u.s.tering her. "I-I'm-I'm sorry. OmiG.o.d . . . I'm sorry. I don't know how he found out I was working here. I'll clean it up," she said with haste, dropping to her knees to recover the broken pieces of plate. The moment she knelt, scrambling to clean the mess, a memory of her old life collided with the new.

Her on the floor, clearing away some mess Mitch had made in a fit of temper or just out of carelessness. Would she always be the one who had to clean up the messes Mitch made? Or could she hand the baton over sometime soon?

Voula was the first to come around the counter, pulling Frankie to her feet to envelope her in a hug. "This is no your fault, Frankie. Mitch, he is bad. Dirty, dirty bad. We don't let no one treat family bad," she spat, the stray strands of her hair puffing out from the wind of it.

Barnabas was instantly at his wife's side, reaching for Frankie to engulf her in a hug doused suspiciously in garlic and onions. "I won't have that Mitch here bothering our Frankie. Even if you don't chop like Barnabas does it, you are family."

Frankie leaned out from him and burst out laughing. "Did you rechop what I've already done?"

"Bah," Barnabas scowled, shamefaced, his dark hair falling to his eyes. "It just needs a little more." He held two chubby fingers together to emphasize what a little more was.

Frankie gave his thick neck a tight squeeze, fighting tears of grat.i.tude. "I'm sorry he made such a mess."

Barnabas pinched her cheek. "S'okay. Nikos will help you clean it up, and I'll take over the chopping while you do."

"Papa," Cosmos warned. "You come with me, old man. Sit and I'll make you a patty melt, just the way you like it." Cosmos led his father out of the dining area while Nikos stooped to help her.

Frankie waved him away, unable to look him in the eye. "It's okay. This was my fault. I'll clean it."

Cupping her chin, Nikos forced her to look at him. "No, Frankie. This wasn't your fault at all. You think you might wanna stop taking the blame for Mitch's asinine behavior any time soon? He's a big boy, you know."

Her cheeks warmed to his fingers under her chin. All that resolve, bolstered by all those little talks with herself about how she wasn't going to fall for another man who could rival Mitch's charm, was sliding.

Do you hear that, Frankie Bennett? You're slipping . . .

Shut up, already. Nikos the dreamboat Antonakas just played Robin Hood to my Maid Marion. The least I can do is thank him.

But it doesn't have to be with those big gooey eyes and that hitch in your breathing. A handshake is perfectly acceptable-socially proper even.

Shhhhh. "Thank you for coming to my rescue," Frankie whispered.

"Wow-did that hurt to say or what?" he teased, his eyes liquid pools of black silk.

"Well, sometimes even I can admit, rescuing is okay."

Nikos winked, bushing her hair away from her eyes. "Especially when family does it, eh?"

With a lean back on her haunches, she giggled. "This makes you my brother, Antonakas. I always wanted an older brother."

"Who said I'm older?" Nikos pretended to be affronted.

"I'm betting you're at least forty."

"Was it my sagging a.s.s or the crow's-feet around my eyes?"

"Hah!" Like this man had to worry about sagging anything. "No, silly. It was your mother. She spilled the beans when she was bemoaning her lack of grandchildren."

"Ah. Well, I'm working on it."

"With Chloe?" OmiG.o.d. Had that burning question just escaped from her thoughts and out through her lips? The one that had tortured her since Jasmine told her Chloe was supposed to marry Nikos?

Nikos's face took on a serious slant, the sun shining through the window lingering on his chiseled cheekbones. "No. Not with Chloe. That was never an option. No matter how Mama feels. And I'm forty-two, funny lady."

"So you are my older brother. You know, in the spirit of family."

His pause lingered between them, as though he was measuring what he'd say next. "Maybe we should just label me a kissing cousin," he chuckled out.

Well, sure, that'd work if he'd actually kissed her. The thought sobered her. "Maybe. Now go help your brother stop your father from rechopping everything I already chopped."

Nikos rose, taking the broken pieces of plate with him. "Chloe? Would you get the mop and grab this, please? I'll catch you later, cuz," he snickered.

Frankie wiped down the stools' legs before rising only to come face-to-face with Chloe and her mop. She leaned against the handle of it with narrowed eyes, her stance defensive. "How long do you suppose you can keep this up?" she asked.

Frankie sighed. If she could contend with Mitch, Chloe was like a day at Six Flags. "Keep what up, Chloe?"

"The damsel-in-distress gig? It's pathetic to watch you fall all over Nikos."

Armed with Nikos's admission and still fuming from Mitch's intrusion on an otherwise perfectly good day, Frankie couldn't hold her tongue. "You know, Chloe, maybe it's time you gave it up."

"What's that, Frankie?"

"The idea that you and Nikos are ever going to be anything more than employer and waitress." She crossed her arms over her chest with a return glare of defiance. So, yeah.

Chloe's face went glacial, her eyes like chips of ice. "Why don't you go back to Mitch where you belong?"