Page 7 of The Worst Best Man

“I take it you’re Franchesca?” the Aussie asked.

“Yeah, but… we’re not together.”

Aiden straightened from the fender and crossed to her. “Let’s go.” He reached for her bag.

Instinctively, Frankie snatched it out of his reach. “I’m taking a cab,” she insisted.

“No, you’re not.”

“Aiden, I told Pru I’d take a cab.”

“And I told her I’d pick you up.”

“Franchesca, it was lovely meeting you, but I’ve got to go,” the Aussie said, backing away.

“Oh, but…”

“Maybe I’ll see you around the island.” He blew her a kiss, dropped a “mate” in Aiden’s direction, and sauntered off in search of a cab.

“Damnit, Aiden. I didn’t even get to give him my number.”

“Pity.” He hefted her bag into the back of the Jeep and secured it with a tie down strap.

“So, what’s this? You’re doing your good deed for the day and giving a poor stripper a ride?” she shot back.

“I already apologized for that.”

“And it was touchingly heartfelt,” Frankie reminded him.

“Get in the damn car.”

Chapter Four

Aiden waited until she was belted in before pulling out onto the main road. He hadn’t exactly told Pruitt that he’d be picking Franchesca up. He’d overheard her talking about the maid of honor’s arrival time the night before. He’d flown down with them to keep an eye on Chip. He’d screwed up Chip and Pruitt’s happiness once before and wasn’t going to let anything happen to them the second time around.

Besides, it gave him an excuse to spend some time alone with Franchesca. He’d thought of her—a lot—since the engagement party. She was… interesting. And damned if her headache cure hadn’t worked like a charm.

He needed to do something about those headaches, about the root of them. And he’d decided to use this trip as planning time. Plotting time. It was long past time he did something about the mess.

“Did you have a good flight?” he asked.

“Great. Would have been better if I could have gotten surfer guy’s number.”

“That’s your type?”

“Ah ah ah!” she pointed a finger at him. “You of all people don’t get to comment on my type.”

“Me of all people?” he asked, stepping on the gas to go around the roundabout.

Frankie grabbed on to the handle mounted on the dashboard but didn’t tell him to slow down.

“If we flipped back through some of your latest conquests, we’d see one blonde skeleton after another shopping and smiling and getting her picture taken.”

It was the truth. But that’s what Manhattan had to offer. Hundreds of well-to-do socialites that looked alike, acted alike, and had the same goals in life.

“Conquests. Is that what Hang Ten back there would have been?”

“Shut up.”