Page 3 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire

If this woman is the owner’s granddaughter, there’s a fifty-fifty chance her last name is also Channing. I type in “Frankie Channing Chicago.”

Up comes Carol Channing’s wiki, an article about theChicago FireTV show, and a video of Channing Tatum dancing without his shirt on.

Then there’s a Linkedin page for a Frankie Channing who’s marketing director for the Crimson Finch home furnishings company. I think my stager has used their stuff to dress the penthouses for sale in some of my buildings.

I rest my elbow on the table to subtly hold up the phone so the profile photo is level with the attractive face in the middle of the shop.

Her hair’s longer in the picture, and she’s wearing a business blouse. She’s turned slightly away from the camera with one hand on her hip and her butt resting against a desk.

It’s definitely her. The smile in the photo is a little one-sided, just like the one on the face in front of me. Except the one in front of me is clearly genuine, whereas the one in the picture doesn’t reach her eyes. I zoom in—yes, they’re blue—and her smile is way less natural, more corporate.

It’s like I’m looking at the two different sides of a coin.

The same person. And yet also not.

The one in reality is a fresh-faced country girl concerned about her grandpa and donkeys.

The one in my hand has changed employers every two years since she graduated from college, to a bigger and better company each time, progressing to director level by the age of—I scroll down to her graduation date—maybe thirty, thirty-one. That’s an ambitious, career-driven individual who probably has the boardroom and an executive salary in her sights.

The coffee shop version is an unexpected obstacle I could do without—one whose wonky smile is hard to tear my eyes away from.

But which one is she?

So much for coming over here to seal a pushover deal with an old man who can be talked into a comfortable retirement in the space of a couple of hours. Now I have to contend with the driven city girl who knows how to negotiate increasingly influential jobs for herself.

Fuck it.

I take a gulp of the hot liquidenergy—hmm, better than I expected—and pretend to look at my phone some more.

“The developer sounds like such a slimeball,” Frankie says. “From everything Grandpa’s said, I wouldn’t even sell one of the wheelbarrows to him—and they’re both falling apart.”

Ah, okay, she and grandpa both hate Skinner. That makes this a marginally less bad start.

“And then, would you believe it”—she slaps Aramis on the arm—“yesterday we had another offer.”

That would be mine. And I know for sure it’s better than Skinner’s because my assistant knows someone who works for him and found out so that I could outbid him.

“Whoa,” Aramis says. “A bidding war. You and Sam could probably retire right now if you pitted them against each other.”

The coffee guy is a wise man. She could pretty much name her price and I’d write the check right now. I would bankrupt myself to outbid Skinner if I had to.

“Not selling to anyone ever,” Frankie says. “Not even Saint Francis himself.”

What?

My brain stops firing for a second. Like someone just pushed pause on all synapse action.

I peer up to see her head tilted, eyebrows raised. A look of satisfied defiance if ever I saw one.

But why the hell wouldn’t they sell?

“Anyway.” She flaps the bundle of papers she’s been holding the whole time. “Grandpa seems to have let volunteer recruitment slide. By which I mean, we have none.”

Aramis folds his arms. “Winter’s hardly the easiest time to get people to work outside for free.”

“Well, I’m desperate for help,” she says. “Can I put up a flyer?”

“Of course.” Atticus moves toward the cluttered bulletin board by the door.