While Bull slowly licked his ice cream, Mako told them to guess stuff about the people who walked past. What they did for a living. If they were good people. If they could fight.
Bull pointed his chin at a guy in mud-covered clothes who was leaning on a lamppost. “Homeless, no job, asshole, probably he’d fall over if he tried to fight.”
Mako snorted. “You’re seeing the dirt and the clothes. Look past that shit, boy.”
Bull scowled.
“He’s wearing fancy cowboy boots. Good ones.” Gabe tilted his head. “An’ his jeans ’n’ shirt aren’t new, but not cheap, either.”
Mako nodded. “Better. Keep going.”
“Got knife in boot,” Caz said.
Bull blinked, and yeah, there was a hilt at the top. So much for being worthless in a fight.
A big pickup pulled up to the curb. The big shell on the back had ten tiny doors in it, and dogs were whining behind them.
The guy climbed into the passenger side and leaned over to kiss a really hot woman.
Mako said, “He owns the sports store. He and his wife aren’t millionaires, but well enough off. That’s a dog truck, and he’s muddy from training his new sled-dog team, fixin’ to race them. Probably took himself a spill.”
“Crap,” Bull muttered. He couldn’t have been more wrong.
“Exactly. Learn to see past the surface—with men and women. It’ll save you a world of hurt.”
Hurt. Bull turned away, mouth tight. If Dad had really seen the restaurant owner who wanted him, maybe he’d have stayed away from her. Maybe he’d still be alive.
And Bull wouldn’t be in Alaska with a bunch of strangers.
Chapter One
It is not your outward appearance that you should beautify, but your soul, adorning it with good works. ~ Clement of Alexandria
“I’ll speak to the stylist about her schedule and see if she can fit in more time for you,” Frankie Bocelli told the woman in the doorway, who was afraid the newer and younger models were getting more attention from the stylist than she was.
Che cavolo. What the heck? How petty. Typing a reminder to follow through, Frankie put a stranglehold on her mouth. She must be polished and gracious. Always. No matter what.
Besides, fighting amongst the models was to be expected. To them, hair and makeup stylists were as important as her organizational software was to her. So, don’t be judgy.
“Thanks, Francesca.”
Francesca. Ugh. “You’re very welcome.” Watching the model strut out of the office, Frankie rubbed her face. Why in the world was she so grumpy these days? It seemed as if everything irritated her recently—although her annoyance with her given name was long-standing.
Fran-chess-kah. Could anything sound fussier? And it had so many letters. In preschool, she’d still been printing her endless name as the short-named classmates like Eve and Ann headed out to play.
In elementary school, hadn’t she just adored being called Frankenstein or Frankfurter? Not. But it was worse when her breasts appeared, and the boys took to calling her Chesty. Really, her breasts were awesome—thank you, Italian genes—but at the time, well…
Things changed when she started college. Her new friends decided her stuffy name didn’t suit her, and her roommate, Kirsten—Kit—dubbed her Frankie. When everyone started calling her Frankie, her world expanded.
Names were important, a kind of acknowledgment. “I see you.” Being called the wrong name constantly felt like a slow erosion of her identity.
But after graduation, she’d fulfilled her parents’ expectations and returned to work in the family business. Mama insisted her daughter mustn’t be called something as masculine-sounding as Frankie. No matter what Frankie wanted, she’d be known by the name on her birth certificate.
Lucky me. Needing a moment, Frankie walked over to water the plants that lined her window. The African violets were blooming in bright lavenders and pinks as if to urge her to cheer up. Beside them were two plants her bestie had given her—a so-called “money” plant and one to clean the air. Kit was all about useful plants.
From outside came the low hum of traffic, punctuated by honks and beeps. New York cabbies loved their horns.
She braced her hands on the sill. Through the drizzling rain on the glass, her tenth-floor office window gave a dreary view of skyscrapers. Spring was late arriving in New York.
The gray, smoggy sky suited her mood.
However, moods could be improved by food—and she had something to eat. She’d bribed one of the gofers to get her a Shake Shack burger.
Back at her desk, Frankie opened the sack and grabbed a crinkle-cut fry. Yum.
“Francesca, I need your help.” Birgit, her oldest sister, entered with the signature catwalk strut that’d made her famous. A second later, she reclined in a chair in such a perfect picture of anguish that there should have been a violin accompaniment.
“What’s up?” With a sigh, Frankie set her burger to one side. Alas, it’d be cold by the time she got to eat it.
Her sister gave the food an appalled look. “You can’t seriously be planning to eat that disgusting monstrosity. Think of your hips. You’re already way too—”
“You don’t have to eat it.” My burger. Mine, mine, mine.
“Come to my exercise class tonight. It’s weightlifting and aerobic dance. That’ll sweat the pounds away.” Birgit patted her concave stomach.
Honestly, my family. All of them obsessed with schedules and nutrition and exercise.
“I prefer my aikido classes, thanks.” Way back in grade school, she’d won a rare battle with Mama and was allowed to take aikido instead of following her oh-so-graceful older sisters into dance classes. “And I jog, too.”
At Birgit’s skeptical expression, Frankie smirked. “Just yesterday, in fact.”
A friend’s crazy kids loved to fly drones. Unfortunately, the so-called drone obstacle avoidance stuff didn’t always work, and there were plenty of drone-meets-light pole crashes. She’d gotten plenty of exercise while chasing after the silly machines.
“Stunning bodies take dedication, Francesca,” Birgit said.
Don’t roll your eyes; don’t roll your eyes. Both of Frankie’s siblings approached exercise like a nun would the rosary. Why couldn’t Mama have been a lawyer or doctor? Or a farmer. Farming would be cool.
But nooo. Norwegian and gorgeous, Mama had been a top model, married her favorite fashion photographer, the Bocelli, and opened a modeling agency.
Birgit and Anja resembled Mama and were models.
Frankie, the baby of the family, got Papà’sItalian DNA. Brown eyes, brown hair, and big breasts. At least she’d managed to be five-six, or she would’ve felt like a Hobbit. Papà’s mama was only five-one.
“Really,” her sister continued, “you need to get into HIIT and alternate that with Pilates and—”
“Birgit.” Years of experience let Frankie interrupt the rant. “What was it you needed?”
“Oh, darling.” Birgit sat up. “You have to help me. Tomorrow, I have a fitting for an exercise clothing shoot, but there’s an afternoon reception for that new Vogue photographer, and I want to go. Can’t you talk with the wardrobe stylist and get her to move the time? She’s a self-centered putz, but everybody listens to you.”