Page 19 of The Ex Effect (Meet Cute in Minnesota #1)

“Yep.” Frankie stuffed a marigold couch pillow behind her back.

“I feel like I can’t throw them out. But who knows how old they are, so I don’t feel right in donating.

I’m making it a personal mission to drink as much as I can while I’m here before I dump and recycle.

” She tipped her can in cheers. “Fair warning, though. You’re about to experience the saddest fizz of your life.

I had one yesterday, and it sounded like it just gave up. ”

Frankie wasn’t wrong. The normally gratifying cacoosh sound when I cracked open the pop was a forlorn hiss at best.

The iPad fired to life and Frankie tapped on the screen.

A moment later, stunning, truly stunning , photos filled the screen.

The colors were bright, enhanced, but still looked genuine.

Olivia and Tommy’s candid photos by the barn transformed something broken down and rotting into something more historic, something with life.

“Oh, go back, I love that one.” I leaned forward and pointed at the screen.

And when I did, the side of my knee grazed Frankie’s knee and my breath hitched.

For a damn knee. God, I was seriously over my adrenal system not listening to a single thought of reason.

Frankie seemed to not notice, or if she cared at all, she didn’t show it.

She didn’t break stride, nor move, as she continued swiping through the photos.

The kicked-up heartbeat cooled. I propped my elbows on my knees and returned to my focused, non-ridiculous, professional self. For ten years, I’d worked with wedding photographers, and none of them came close to what Frankie captured here. Even the posed ones didn’t look cheesy or awkward.

And then an image of myself popped up, one that Frankie must’ve taken when testing the shutter speed.

I had my arms crossed, peering into the distance like I was contemplating the fate of the world.

Streams of the sun highlighted my blonde strands, and even with the serious expression, this might be one of the best pictures I’d ever seen of myself.

Frankie tapped off the screen. “I’ll delete those test shots.”

“No…no…it’s okay. You could even send this one to me if you wanted.

” I had no idea if the forced nonchalant tone landed.

The flat cream soda on the coffee table was a perfect escape.

I gulped back the sugary substance and dabbed the side of my mouth.

“Frankie…these photos are beautiful. Olivia and Tommy are going to love them.”

A small grin appeared, enough to show Frankie’s dimples. “Thanks.”

Damn those dimples. When we met as kids, I remembered asking my mom how I could get dimples myself.

They were the most beautiful thing in the world, like a secret compartment unlocked by the power of a smile.

As we grew older, the dimples still held a power over me, a sort of lesbian kryptonite that could make me melt.

I scooted toward the edge of the couch, needing distance. “I thought you didn’t shoot people.”

“I don’t shoot people. I may look like I can hand someone’s ass to them in a bar fight, but I’m a pacifist right here.” Frankie tapped her heart with two fingers .

God, she was really going to make me drag this out, wasn’t she? “You know what I mean. You’re really…gifted. I mean, I knew, but I guess I didn’t know.”

Did I know? No, I couldn’t have. Right? The memories were hazy. If I knew Frankie was that good, I would’ve treated her dream of becoming a famous photographer differently. Things would’ve been different. Maybe.

No . I have to stop. Nothing would have been different. Frankie could’ve developed this talent here…she didn’t have to move to New York to do it. And honestly, it was so long ago. Why do I even care? I don’t care.

“Well, thanks,” Frankie said. “I really love what I do.”

I flicked the top of the pop can. “Do you work? Like regularly?” Fine, I marginally cared. But that was it.

“Yes…and no.” Frankie slid the iPad to the center of the table.

“I’m freelance, but I usually stay pretty booked up.

The schedule works for me, and is perfect for times like this, knowing I was coming home for the summer.

I just didn’t book myself with any appointments except this wedding.

” She glanced out the window for several long moments before her knee stopping bouncing next to me.

“I’m actually interviewing for a different thing. ”

“Oh yeah?” I said between sips. “What’s that?”

“Permanent staff at Birch & Willow . Not sure if you’ve heard of them.”

Not sure if I’ve heard of them? My mouth dropped at the rate of my eyes skyrocketing. The magazine, the brand, even the freaking website, was everything. “Shut up!”

Birch & Willow was incredible. The photography was stunning, of course, but I loved their products.

Chunky knitted blankets, live-edged cedar coffee tables with their minimalist stamp, hand-carved stone vases.

I even splurged a few years back and purchased several hand-dipped, soy-based candles that smelled like mandarin, figs, and greens.

Although they were so expensive that I hadn’t lit them yet and just occasionally walked by and sniffed.

And Frankie landed an interview with that company?

I didn’t know the ins and out of the photography world, but Birch & Willow probably only chose the best of the best. Having spent years developing my own brand, I knew having a strong, recognizable brand that straddled the line of bougie (but not too bougie) while flawlessly conveying beauty, minimalism, and class was tricky as hell.

But Birch & Willow had succeeded and became a household name—even if not all households could afford their products.

“Okay, I’ve got to ask. Was the process grueling? ”

Frankie sunk deeper into the couch. “You have no idea. First, I’m not used to interviewing at all. Normally, I just send a portfolio, or people check my references, and call it good. But I swear given the opportunity they would’ve asked me for my blood type and what type of porn I watched.”

I gobbled down everything Frankie said about all the prep she completed just to land the interview, pulling every string she had and dropping all the names.

When Frankie talked about going to the headquarters (which was not too far from Times Square, apparently) and spending a full eight hours getting to know the creative team, I inched closer.

“Anyway, yeah, it’s definitely a chance of a lifetime.” Frankie stood and adjusted her jean legs. “So, we’ll see. Who knows, I may have scared them off the moment I strutted in like a badass with all of this.” She swiped her hands down her torso and grinned.

No matter how cavalier the voice, or the actions, I could see through the bullshit.

This carefree attitude was the exact same one I flexed around others when talking about not caring about my five-star reviews, knowing damn well the power it held over me.

I gathered the craft items into the totes and followed Frankie outside to my car.

“Okay, tomorrow, bright and early at Pete and Patty’s.

I know I said around eight, but in full transparency, I’ll probably get there at seven. ”

Frankie swiped her hands down her face. “God, that’s early.”

“You have until eight, though.”

“Gee, thanks. How overly generous of you.” Once the items were securely in the trunk, Frankie slammed it shut. “And, uh, thanks for the nice things you said tonight. I forget under that Rambo-Barbie exterior, there’s still a hint of sweetness.”

“Jerk.” I didn’t know what possessed me, maybe the ghost of a past relationship, or the fact I had very few close friends, but I threw my arms around Frankie and hugged.

Only a split second passed before Frankie squeezed back.

Her dark and stormy cologne drifted from her neck and dammit .

Maybe it was because Frankie was so strong, or because it had been a long time since I’d been held, but my body melted.

Stop . I stiffened and did an odd one-arm bro tap on Frankie’s shoulders. “See ya tomorrow.” Pretty sure I could not have made this encounter any more awkward if I tried. I peeled out the driveway, my face so hot it felt like it’d bubble. I pushed a palm into my forehead and exhaled.

What in the hell am I doing?