Page 2 of Fixed (Spicy Bites #2)
FRANKIE
I pace the length of Seth’s office like a caged ferret, only less dignified and with considerably worse posture. My beloved Fiat “Sparkie” is parked in shame outside, dripping coolant. I shoot it a death glare through the window, then resume my muttering.
The office itself is a glass-and-steel fishbowl perched above the garage like some Bond villain’s lair. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a big glass desk, all brushed metal, and expensive ergonomic chairs.
My phone vibrates in my palm, flashing a “LOW BATTERY” warning as if I needed any more existential chaos in my life. I shake it, which does nothing, and set it down on the desk with a little too much force. Somewhere below, the clanking of tools ricochets up the fancy modern metal stairs.
After flopping into the nearest chair, I drag my hands through my hair.
It’s still damp from stress sweat and the overwhelming Texas humidity, and half my curls revolt instantly, escaping the claw clip to form an untamed halo around my head.
My glasses slide down my nose, which is just what I need to complete the “unhinged librarian on edge” look.
I yank my bag onto my lap, dig through the debris, and pull out my laptop, rolling my eyes when I see the NOT TODAY, SATAN decal in cheerful bubble letters. The sticker is a lie. Today very much belongs to the devil, and I’m currently his favorite chew toy.
I pull up my bank app and see my checking account is low.
My savings account is healthier, but less so every time I check it.
There’s also my trust fund, sitting fat and obscene at the bottom of the list, its little “Available Balance” line basically mooning me.
I refuse to touch it. I’d rather die or take a job on a cruise ship.
Drumming my fingers against the desk, I debate my options.
I’m supposed to be on a cruise ship job by tomorrow.
Galveston is still a few hours away, and Sparkie’s currently giving off “rapidly cooling corpse” vibes.
I could rent a car, but that would hit my “not touching the trust fund” budget hard.
I could also hitchhike, but with my luck, I’d end up dismembered in a drainage ditch, and my mother would absolutely use my tragic murder as campaign material. Not really, but close.
Option three is to wallow in defeat and book the cheapest hotel room I can find until Sparkie is patched up. I come up with the Silver Spoon Inn, which looks decent and is mostly affordable.
I click “Book Now” and hover my finger over the confirmation button as my laptop buzzes with a low battery. Damn. I really need to start charging my electronic devices more frequently. I hurry up and finish the transaction before my laptop rolls over and dies.
Out in the hall, the noises of the shop amplify as air tools buzz, classic rock blares, and someone shouts “Bullshit!” with such force that the glass trembles.
I think I hear Seth’s voice mixing with all the noises. My pulse still does weird things every time I think of my rescuer. It’s hard enough to be unruffled when your entire life is going up in flames without being distracted by whatever the hell is happening between us.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the office window. My hair is tragic, my glasses are askew, and my shirt is slightly wrinkled with "BAD DECISIONS CLUB" printed in an ironic varsity font.
I adjust my bra through the fabric, then realize the office is ringed with security cameras and is probably visible from everywhere. I stop, because the only thing worse than making an ass of myself is knowing someone is watching me do it.
After throwing my laptop into my bag, I yank it closed and head for the stairs.
The main lobby is a long glass rectangle overlooking the bays.
Seth’s at the counter, head bent over a clipboard, one hand raking through his hair in clear distress.
He looks up when I approach, and the glower instantly melts from his face.
“Everything okay, Sassy Pants?” He gives me a smile that instantly melts my insides and causes my girly parts to wake up and tingle. Oh, heck no. I don’t have time to deal with these unwanted feelings.
"Yep. I just needed a breather," I reply, plastering an overly bright smile across my face.
The air seems to shimmer with tension as I add, "I'm gonna check into the Silver Spoon Inn while I wait for you guys to whip Sparkie into shape.
" My voice carries a cool, collected tone, but inside, I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks.
When he looks at me, I feel an overwhelming intensity that nearly melts me into a puddle under his penetrating gaze. "Want a lift?"
On what? Flashes through my mind, and I give my head a little shake, wondering where all these crazy thoughts are coming from.
“It’s not too far.” Hopefully, a little exercise will clear my mind and help me figure out how I’m going to handle this situation.
“I’ll just walk.” Over the last few weeks, I’ve had a black cloud hovering right over my head that I just can’t shake.
Now, I’ve got the black cloud mixed with an unfortunate desire for Seth.
"I'm here if you need anything." His voice drops to a low, intimate whisper as he leans in closer, the warmth of his breath brushing against my ear.
"Just ask." My lips part, ready to utter something foolish and impulsive, like "please handcuff me to your bed.
" Fortunately, I manage to catch the reckless words just in time, swallowing them back before they escape.
"Thank you," I manage to whisper, my voice barely steady.
"Anything for you, Frankie." The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine, twisting my insides in a confusing, treacherous dance.
I fight to keep my face neutral, hiding the tumult within.
“I need your cellphone number so I can reach you about your car.” He hands me a form to fill out my contact info.
With quick, deliberate strokes, I fill out only the essential details, my hand moving with a practiced ease.
"Here you go," I murmur softly, handing it back to him while summoning every ounce of dignity I can muster.
My footsteps echo softly as I head toward the glass doors, the cool, smooth surface reflecting the determined set of my shoulders.
My mother would be so proud of my efforts.
Outside, the sun is already blistering. I haul my overnight bag higher on my shoulder and set off down the sidewalk, past the gleaming luxury cars and battered pickup trucks.
Downtown Silver Spoon Falls looks like someone built a movie set for “Quaint, Rich Small Town” and then let it bake in the Texas sun for a century.
The Silver Spoon Inn is at the center of it—whitewashed brick, purple hydrangeas exploding from the beds, and a wrought-iron sign that looks like it was hand-forged by elves.
I step inside, the AC nearly knocking me over, and blink in an attempt to get my eyes to adjust.
The lobby is aggressively homey. There’s a chandelier made of old wine bottles, two armchairs upholstered in something that probably cost more than Sparkie did, and a little plate of lemon cookies on the check-in desk.
The woman behind the counter has hair the color of caution tape and a huge smile that stretches across her face.
"Welcome to the Silver Spoon Inn," she greets with a warm smile, her voice smooth and inviting. "Reservation?"
"Frankie Foxworth," I reply, a hint of apprehension in my voice as I silently pray she doesn't connect the dots to my infamous family name.
Her fingers dance across the keyboard with practiced efficiency.
"I have your reservation right here," she announces, her tone remaining neutral and unaffected.
Relief washes over me; it seems she either doesn't recognize or isn't fazed by who I am.
Victory! "Breakfast is served from seven to ten, check-out is at eleven, and should you need anything during your stay, simply dial zero.
" She places a sleek keycard on the polished marble countertop, its surface gleaming under the soft lobby lights.
"The Wi-Fi code is your last name," she adds with a nod and a reassuring smile.
“Thanks.” I grab the keycard and my bag and take the old-fashioned elevator to the second floor.
My room is… exquisite. The bed is a sleek platform design with crisp, white Egyptian cotton sheets.
Every horizontal surface gleams with polished marble, and a collection of abstract sculptures adds an artistic touch from the dresser.
I place my bag gently near the entrance, slip off my tennis shoes, and sink luxuriously into the plush mattress.
I stare at the ceiling. It stares back. I imagine my mother’s voice: “What in the world were you thinking, Francesca? You could’ve done so much more with your life.”
I can’t decide if I want to laugh or scream.
Instead, I fish my phone out, plug it into the charger, and pull up Ben’s number. It rings twice before he answers, his voice crisp and unflappable as always. “Hey, little sis. Did you make it to Galveston?”
I close my eyes and count to three. “Not exactly. I’m stuck in Silver Spoon Falls. Sparkie decided to give up the ghost right outside of town.”
He sighs, and I can picture my older brother pinching the bridge of his nose. “I warned you that car is an accident waiting to happen.”
I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me. “I know you did.”
“Do you need me to send someone to get you?” He’s doing that thing where he lectures and teases at the same time, and it’s so familiar it almost makes me homesick.
I sigh. “I can take care of this on my own.”
Ben makes a little huffing sound. “How are you taking care of it?”
“I had Sparkie towed to a local auto shop. The very nice mechanic is checking her out right now.” I leave out the part where I’m lusting after said mechanic.
“Okay.” He lets it go, for now. “Did you let your new employer know you might be late?”
I don’t answer right away. There’s a tiny pulse beating in my chest, an anxious, weirdly hesitant rhythm. After meeting Seth, I’m not sure I want to make it to my new job. I press my thumb against my lips and pace the room. “I’m going to call them next.”
"I'm here if you need anything, little sis." My brother's voice echoes warmly through the phone, wrapping me in a comforting embrace despite the distance. I know how hard it is for him not to step in and take control of the situation, and I appreciate his efforts.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold back the flood of emotions. "I know you are," I reply softly. In the eyes of my parents, I might be a monumental disappointment, a tarnished reflection of their expectations. Yet, my brother stands as my unwavering pillar, my most steadfast ally.
He finally laughs, a sound filled with genuine warmth and reassurance. "Call if you need anything. Seriously, I mean it," he insists, his voice carrying the weight of sincerity and care.
"Love you," I whisper, allowing a small smile to touch my lips as I end the call before he has the chance to respond.
I toss the phone onto the bed and flop down beside it, my gaze fixed once again on the ceiling's now-familiar patterns.
My pulse has gradually slowed, but my mind races in an endless loop of thoughts.
Absentmindedly, I twist the intricately designed ring I inherited from my grandmother until the metal pinches against my skin.
The one thing Gramma Evans always told me was, “Follow your instincts. No matter how crazy it seems.” Well, Gramma, this is my moment to leap.
Summoning every ounce of courage, I draft an email to the cruise line, informing them of my decision not to accept the job offer after all.
My finger hesitates above the send button, my heart pounding like a frantic little bird trapped in a cage, knowing that with one decisive click, I am altering the entire course of my life.
The silence in the room is suddenly huge. I flop backward, laptop closing with a soft thump, and press my arm over my eyes. My breath comes in little hiccups—panic and relief fighting for the top bunk in my chest.
It’s done. I’ve cut the cord. I’m officially unemployed, stranded, and out of options, and I feel lighter than I have in months.
The little voice in my mind tells me to stay. Just for a little while. To see what happens.
I don’t know what I’ll do next. For now, I listen to the hum of the AC, the clank of pipes in the wall, the faint traffic sounds from the street below.
I let the not-knowing settle, for the first time, like it’s something I could learn to live with.
Tomorrow, I’ll figure out what the hell comes next.