Heather Macallister - Male Call

Marnie stood. While she was out here, she ought to check the plant stand.

The pots were swaying, but Franco had wedged the heavy stand in a corner. Just to make sure, Marnie moved one of the matching wrought iron chairs from the little table set next to the stand.

The chair had chipped white paint and bits of rust on the seat. It looked extremely uncomfortable. Marnie couldn’t imagine anyone—even Franco—sitting in it, but from the street, the tableau probably looked very picturesque.

Another gust of wind caught her skirt and slammed the glass door shut so hard, the pane rattled. Moist San Francisco night air misted Marnie’s thighs before she could yank the skirt back down.

Good grief! The whole block had probably seen her underwear by now. Holding the skirt in place with one hand, Marnie tried to open the French door with the other.

It was locked.

She rattled the handle. She tried pulling up and turning. She tried pushing down and turning. She tried kicking, but since she was barefoot it hurt her more than the door.

Great. Now what? She could break the glass and unlock the door, assuming the lock wasn’t broken, which she suspected it was. Or she could try to get Franco’s attention.

Marnie leaned over the balcony. “Franco! Franco, can you hear me?” The front door was just beneath her.

There was no answer and Marnie remembered that Franco had said something about running errands. He’d also said something about returning in half an hour.

Okay, then. She’d give him half an hour and then she’d break the glass.

Or she’d give him until her feet went numb, whichever came first.

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