I almost laugh. She always has a snarky comeback waiting for me. It’s impressive.
Without being invited to sit, I take the empty chair that’s angled toward hers. “What’re you doing here?”
Frankie huffs. “Minding my own business, which is more than I can say for you.”
There’s no controlling my laughter now. It’s loud and booming and gains the attention of a couple who are several hideouts away. “Call me curious, but I couldn’t help wondering how someone spends four hundred dollars at a coffee shop.”
“They sell a lot more than coffee,” she retorts like the crack of a whip.
“And that makes it more reasonable?”
“Obviously.” She suddenly goes still. “Where’s Ronnie?”
“Took you long enough,” I scold. “She’s at a sleepover. I just dropped her off.”
“Why didn’t I hear about it?”
“You’re a shit nanny.”
Frankie’s flinch is incredibly satisfying. “Gonna fire me?”
“Nah, but you’re gonna tell me what you spent my money on.”
“Thought I could use it for whatever I need?”
“Spit it out already.” The underlying rumble in my tone reveals my growing irritation.
Her eyes roll hard enough to pop out of their sockets. “I bought a round for the whole place.”
“You bought a round… at a coffee shop?”
She shrugs. “Figured it would earn some brownie points from the locals.”
“At my expense.”
“You offered,” she reminds.
“Not what I had in mind.”
“Should’ve thought of that before handing it over without limits. You’re practically begging me to max out your card.”
“I dare you to try.”
“There you go again,” she taunts.
“Dammit!” I bellow in return, frustration bubbling over in an uncontrolled wave. “Always got something to say.”
“That’s why you pay me the big bucks.” She mimics rubbing cash between her thumb and first two fingers.
“I’m not paying you to ruin my boots.”
Frankie doesn’t so much as blink at my swerve in subject, keeping her neutral expression locked in. “More like improved them.” Her fiery green gaze inspects the doodles branded into custom leather that can’t be easily replaced. “Are you actually mad?”
“Would it matter either way?”
She makes a noncommittal noise. “If you’re asking me, it looks like you’re wearing them with pride. Ronnie worked hard and you’re showing it off. Just one more symbol of ideal fatherhood.”
I stare at the designs covering my boots, refusing to acknowledge her assumption. “Why’d you do it?”