How to love

three: Dave and Buster's

Frankie's point of view:

I hiss as the cold water splashes against the throbbing red mark that now tainted my wrist in a ugly fashion, my eyes frantically searching for the time on the clock above my refrigerator. Mr Hayes would be pulling up in the next few minutes and here I was, biting back tears in hope not to ruin my mascara by crying over the mark my curling iron had made. Holding a wet rag on the mark, I rush to my bedroom in hope to find a bracelet big enough to cover it but I had nothing. Not even a big chunky bracelet from my hoarding college days.

I had no time to scramble deeper in my box of jewellery as my phone dings loudly from the living room. Checking my hair quickly in the hall mirror and narrowing my eyes at the sinful curlers that lay on the floor, I grab my cross-body bag and rush downstairs.

I wasn't a car fanatic, but when my eyes rested upon the sleek black Aston Martin DB11 parked out front of my apartment block, I couldn't help but gape in awe. The sight of the casually dressed driver was also a eye-watering sight.

He wore a white button down shirt and dark jeans, a camel coloured pea coat hugging his upper half and matching Chelsea boots on his feet. Leaning against the hood of his car, he looked like something from a magazine.

"Sorry, I hope you weren't waiting long." I apologised, thanking him quietly as he very kindly opened the door. He hurries to the drivers side and doesn't hesitate too turn the heating up to warm our frosty fingers.

"For you? Never." He cheekily grins. "Now, do you want to tell me where we're going?"

I bite back a giggle and give him the street name, watching his forehead wrinkle in confusion but doesn't take a moment to question. Although my stomach was tightening like a boy scout was practising his knots, I knew that to make him understand that he didn't need to use his wealth to win a woman, we needed to go here.

"So tell me about yourself, Miss Fields."

I jut out my bottom lip and my inner conscious crossed her arms and stomped her foot at the oh-so-formal address.

"First off, please can you call me Frankie?" I plea with him, watching as he cautiously removes his eyes from the road for a split second to look at me quickly. A small and timid smile graces his lips and he nods. "Thank you - Jason."

Even the use of his first name made the hairs right across my body stand to attention and by the cough that erupts from the pit of his throat. He shifts almost uncomfortably in his seat, his hand tightening and untightening around the steering wheel.

"What do you want to know? There's not exactly much to tell."

He shrugs. "Everything. Your family, your friends. What makes you, you."

The sense of vulnerability crept up within me and although the warm air leaving the cars air vents made me cosy, I couldn't help but feel a cold chill run down my spine. I tug on the sleeves of my leather jacket and bite at my inner cheek.

"Well, uh, my real name is Francesca Marilyn Fields. Marilyn after Monroe, Francesca after my dad - Frank." I pause and shrug my shoulders slightly, diverting my gaze to the passing city that zoomed by. "My mom passed away when I was nineteen from a long battle with stage four pancreatic cancer. I have a sister, Flo or Florence although if you called her that now I'm pretty sure you would lose a limb."

He chuckles and I smile down at my fiddling fingers that rested in my lap.

"Flo is older, she's twenty-nine and happily married to her childhood.sweetheart and they have my beautiful little niece, Vivian. She's four. Uh, my best friend from middle school is still my best friend even though she lives in California to attend ULC."