Page 77 of The Worst Best Man

What could she possibly say that wouldn’t sound like she’d lost her damn mind?My boyfriend and I are just having sex until he gets bored and moves on. But it’s cool because he’s promised me a ton of orgasms and anything I want.Nope. That wouldn’t do.

“His name is Aiden, and we met at the wedding.”

“He must be one of the hoity-toity crowd if he was at Pruitt’s wedding,” Brenda guessed.

“I don’t really know what he does,” Frankie said evasively. It wasn’t exactly a lie. Just because Aiden had more money in his couch cushions than she did in her savings account didn’t mean that she exactly grasped what he did to earn those piles of cash.

“That’s not like you. Usually you have a dossier of every dateable candidate before you even say yes to the first date,” Brenda pointed out.

“I’ll have to get on that dossier,” Frankie promised.

“What’s his last name?” Brenda asked.

“Kilbourn. Aiden Kilbourn.” Shit was about to go down.

Brenda shoved a finger in her ear above the neat rows of tiny gold hoops that she wore in her lobe. “I’m sorry. It sounded to these old ears like you said Aiden Kilbourn.”

“You’ve heard of him?” Frankie asked innocently. Of course, she’d heard of him. Everyone in the five boroughs knew of the Kilbourns and their Manhattan domination.

Brenda bustled back to her desk, her nails clicking on the keyboard. She was shaking her head and muttering. Frankie slunk into the tiny kitchenette and stored her lunch in the fridge. “Morning, Raul,” she called through his open door.

Raul was a man of small stature and big heart. He also dressed to the nines in vibrant colored pullover sweaters and nerdy glasses. His hair was going silver. He always made time for anyone who graced his doorway and considered himself an aficionado on bottles of wine below twenty dollars.

“Morning, Frankie. You ready for the workshop today?”

“All set. We’ve got ten signed up, which probably means eight will show.” One of Frankie’s specialties was teaching social media marketing to local business owners or employees that were hired to take care of Facebook pages and Instagram accounts. She ran the Facebook account for her parents’ deli after her father had blatantly refused to learn how to turn on a computer. Her mother was quick on an iPad but had no desire to “blab about every damn thing” she did in her day.

But it gave Frankie a special insight into the mind of a small business owner. It was just one of the areas she focused on at her job. But it was usually more fun than grant writing and accounting software tutorials. The people the business development center served couldn’t afford a pricey accountant, and if they could, they wouldn’t trust one. Small business was as different from the corporate level as, well, Frankie was to Aiden.

She slipped back to her desk and found a stack of freshly printed papers.

Brenda had started the dossier for her.

She intended to ignore them, but a headline caught her eye. And then a picture of Aiden and another man at a charity auction. She skimmed the caption and promptly fell down the rabbit hole. Aiden was COO for Kilbourn Holdings, a mega corporation that specialized in mergers and acquisitions as well as corporate finance. Aiden on his own also dabbled in real estate. The man owned buildings. In Manhattan.

And he still played polo but only for charity.Of course.

She flipped to another picture, a group shot on the carpet of some gala. He looked like his mother, one of the women under Aiden’s father’s arm. The same thick, dark hair, the same patrician nose. Spectacular cheekbones. His father had the Irish auburn hair that was going silver. Cozy family, she thought. Aiden’s parents had divorced years ago. Yet they still socialized in the same circles.

Aiden’s stepmother and Elliot the Fink were also in the picture. The women were dressed in stunning gowns, the men in tuxes they’d been born to wear.

Frankie was suddenly beyond relieved that she’d laid down the law on dabbling in his life. No arm candy appearances. She’d done enough catering gigs to see how the whole trophy date thing worked. Stand there and look beautiful but keep your trap shut. Drink but not too much. Don’t eat anything that crunches or crumbles or ruins your lipstick. Smile but not too much.

Barf.

She was not about to sign up for a life that treated Tuesday nights like it was prom.

She checked her watch. She still had an hour before she needed to head upstairs to set up. They had a conference room on the second floor where they hosted educational seminars. Frankie was working on building a set of online classes for business owners who were too busy to take time out of their day to attend. But it was slow going with the grad work and the catering. Just a few more jobs that she’d already committed to and her credit card balance would be gone. Then just a few more months and she’d have that shiny MBA in hand.

And then?

Then she wasn’t sure. She’d love to stay here, working for Brenda and Raul. They were the heart of the business community in Brooklyn Heights. But their budget was already stretched near to breaking. If they lost just one grant, cuts would have to be made, and unfortunately for Frankie, she’d be first in line. It was another reason she wanted to make sure they had the online classes to offer.

She’d find something that excited her, that challenged her. And she’d finally be able to claw her way up from the paycheck-to-paycheck existence she’d known her entire life.

She was startled out of her reverie by the door. A courier popped in hefting a large black box. “Looking for a Ms. Baranski,” he said, popping an ear bud out of his ear.

Brenda pointed an index finger in Frankie’s direction. “You found her.”