What You See (Sons of the Survivalist #3) - Cherise Sinclair Page 0,68
west that Hawk loves.” Bull shot a smile at his brother. “Quite a few people are here to escape something in the Lower 48.”
“Interesting. In New York, people come for the size of it, or they want Broadway, or the jobs.” Because they were searching for something.
It was a relief she wouldn’t be asked more questions about what brought her to Rescue. However, she could reassure the law enforcement types. “I’m not fleeing from anything.” She grinned at JJ, then the chief of police. “I have no crime or Mafia connections or whatever in my past, either.”
Amusement lit in Gabe’s blue eyes. “I know.”
“What? You ran a background check on me?”
He grinned. “I’m taking the Fifth.”
That stronzo.
She eyed Bull.
Framed by the black goatee, his mouth tipped up at the corners. He knew what his brother had done. Not that there was anything to find, but still.
She gave him a frown, too.
“Wasn’t it hard to leave New York? And come here? Rescue’s so little.” Regan’s nose wrinkled.
Such an intelligent girl. Bull said the child lost her mother last year, and Caz had brought her to Alaska. For someone coming late to the parenthood game, the doc seemed like an amazing father.
Frankie smiled at the girl. “Aside from Italy, I haven’t spent much time outside the city.” Seeing the worry in Caz’s eyes, she asked for him, “Don’t you like living in Rescue?”
“Oh, yeah, I do. It’s a lot cooler than LA. But I’m a kid.”
Caz gave Frankie a grateful nod.
“I was ready to explore somewhere different,” Frankie said, “so I took a couple of months off from my job and came to Alaska.”
“For the summer, like we do in school.” Regan nodded. “What’s your job?”
Oh, merda. An executive wouldn’t be likely to pick up a minimum wage job. Well, a vague answer never hurt anyone. “I work in a modeling agency, but not as a model. I’m kind of a helper, not a booker or manager, but I smooth the path between the models and their managers and photographers and stylists.”
Bull was studying her. “That sounds like a rather high-powered occupation.”
He wasn’t buying her helper spiel.
“Is it fun?” Regan asked.
Frankie dug for a truth she could use. “In a way. I like making sure everything flows well, but I don’t like the advertising industry. Everything they do—using stunningly beautiful models and photography tricks—is to make regular people feel inadequate so they’ll buy more clothing, accessories, makeup, or hair products.”
“Oh. Huh.” Regan sat back, obviously needing to think about what Frankie had said.
Frankie might need to do the same. Her words had come from a truth that had been stewing for a while. One that felt dismayingly valid.
A well-paying job wasn’t necessarily a rewarding one. But it was also what her family expected of her. A Bocelli worked for the company.
“Whatever brought you here, we’re glad, and we love the meal you made us today.” Audrey raised her glass. “To Frankie.”
The chorus of appreciative comments set up a glow inside Frankie. “Thank you. And…it sounds as if this is the right time for dessert.”
The delighted “yay” from Regan made her laugh.
In the kitchen a while later, Bull was pleasantly full, having topped off the excellent meal with a helping of tiramisu.
The Italian theme night was going to be a success at the roadhouse.
“She’s an interesting woman,” Caz said.
Bull put another plate into the large dishwasher. It was good they’d overruled Mako and installed it when the building was constructed. “Frankie, you mean?”
“Sí.” After handing Bull more plates, Caz glanced toward the giant U-shaped sectional where the women were. “I was tempted to let JJ dig for the story of what brought her to Alaska.”
So was Bull. He closed the dishwasher door and started the cycle. “She’s allowed her secrets, bro.”
Caz grinned. “I’m surprised you don’t know everything already.”
“I’m not the old man.” As their leader, Gabe had been labeled the “old man” before they even reached their teens—and the cop went after secrets like a hound on a blood trail. “I don’t need to know everything.”
“Maybe you do. You want her for your roadhouse, which might mean helping with whatever’s bothering her from her past. You’re a fixer, ’mano.” Caz poured himself a glass of iced tea.
Bull frowned. He did want Frankie for the roadhouse…and for himself. “You might have a point.”
Hearing Frankie’s open laughter, Bull smiled. She had a hell of a laugh. “By the way, bro. Do you happen to know what orso-key-AH-toe means?”