Page 133 of The Worst Best Man

“Not with everyone in the neighborhood stopping by for gossip on our own Frankie B,” Marco snorted.

“We usually only pull in these kinds of sales around the holidays. But you put us on the map. We got neighbors and reporters crawling out of the woodwork.”

“Oh, God! No one’s talking to the reporters, are they?” Frankie moaned.

“Only in glowing lies about your goodness. You’ve been dubbed Saint Franchesca.”

“You are so full of shit.”

“Relax. We take care of our own,” Marco said, biting into what Frankie could only assume was a giant dill pickle. “Besides, Aiden and his PR guy stopped by earlier in the week and gave us all the standard line.”

“Aiden came to the deli?” Frankie asked.

He’d been so busy in the week since “the incident” they hadn’t seen much of each other. And he had definitely not mentioned the visit.

“Yeah, had a roast beef for lunch and took another one for the road. Didn’t you see the pictures of him carrying the Baranski Deli bag around? Can’t pay for that kind of advertising. Had a real estate developer call us up and ask if we’d consider opening a location downtown.”

“Are you kidding me?” She’d been wallowing in her own stew of embarrassment and anger that she hadn’t bothered to give two shits about anything else apparently.

“We’re not gonna do it. Baranskis are Brooklyn, you know? But it was nice to have the opportunity to say ‘No, thanks.’”

“What the hell else have I missed? The Pope pop by for a turkey club and a chat with Dad?”

Marco barked out a laugh. “Ha. I miss your twisted sense of humor. Stop by sometime, okay? Bring your guy.”

Frankie sighed. “I will. Thanks for having my back.”

“Family. Later, Frank.”

“Later, Marco.”

Frankie scrolled through the Google Alerts she received in the last week and pulled up a picture. There Aiden was in all his wealthy entrepreneur glory in a sexy navy suit, aviators, and a Baranski Deli bag. Looking at him in the picture, it was hard for her to reconcile the fact that she shared a bed with the man. He looked like he’d strolled off of someone’s Perfect Guy Pinterest board.

She knew why he was working so much this week. He was cleaning up her mess, and he’d taken the time to make sure her family was prepared. Just like family would.

Tomorrow, he was taking her to a fundraiser supporting a children’s cancer hospital hosted by his mother at her Long Island home. It would be their first “appearance” since the “incident,” and Frankie was already feeling the pressure. He hadn’t told her anything about his parents’ reaction to her brief lack of judgment. All she knew is the family dinner last Saturday had been canceled, presumably because Aiden was working on cleaning up her mess. Or because his parents were horrified by her behavior.

Well, she’d find out soon enough.

She scrolled through some more pictures, finding a few of them together. Aiden escorting her out of her building for brunch after a night of mattress pounding sex. Aiden guiding her into his office building with a hand at her lower back. The two of them wrapped up in each other in line at a coffee shop.

How was this her life? The magnifying glass had lowered without her ever really preparing for it. Now she appeared in magazines. Her decision to smack Lionel with a tray had been debated on a morning talk show. The attention was oppressive. And all she could do was sit and wait for the next celebrity or gossip column favorite to do something outrageous before the rest of the city forgot all about her.

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“Come meet me for lunch,” Pru demanded.

“I’m not showing my face in that borough until someone famous gets arrested for prostitution.”

“You can’t let them push you into hiding. You’re Franchesca Fucking Baranski. You don’t hide from people!” Pru said, working her way into a halftime football coach pep talk.

“I’m not hiding,” Frankie argued. “I’m laying low so I don’t get sued by an asshole whose retainer for his lawyer costs more than my MBA.”

Jesus. She wasn’t safe anywhere. Her corporate social responsibility professor had pulled her aside and asked if Mr. Kilbourn would be interested in addressing the class on sexual harassment at the management level in the workplace.

She was one of those bugs on a white board with a pin in it. Collected and preserved by greedy fingers.

“Are you really going to let a little attention banish you from life? Or are you going to grow a pair, put on a gorgeous dress, and come eat lunch with me?”