Let's Be Frank by Brea Brown Page B

continues her questioning, trailing her index finger along the rim of her wineglass.
    Her hybrid of “male nurse” makes me laugh. “Uh, yeah.”
    “Sexy. Do you sport any tats under your scrubs?”
    “No tats here,” I inform her unapologetically.
    “Uh-oh. What are you, afraid of needles?”
    “That would be a bit inconvenient, don’t you think?”
    “But it would make you more interesting,” she muses.
    “Oh, I’m plenty interesting in other ways,” I over-promise, which instantly erases any examples from my mind. Fortunately, she doesn’t make me back up my claim.
    “Never mind. ‘Interesting’ isn’t one of Francesca’s requirements.”
    “Well, I’ll keep my eyes open for fellow murses who like body art, and I’ll send them your way,” I offer.
    “I’m not into ink,” she says with a moue and an impatient flick of her wrist. “I was just making conversation.”
    “Can we talk about something that involves my participation?” Frankie demands in that baby-talk sulky voice that drives me up a wall almost as much as the duck-lips face that goes with it.
    I clench my teeth but manage to turn it into a smile before facing her. “Yeah. You’re quiet tonight.”
    “Didn’t want to interrupt.” Her tone and the way she’s now moved as far away from me as the wall will allow suggest otherwise.
    There’s no point in being a jerk, so I cover her hand with mine and squeeze it. “Hey, I’m sorry.” She pushes my hand away but doesn’t say anything.
    Rejected, I bury my nose in my beer glass and drain the rest of it.
    Betty observes us for a few seconds. “This one’s really not your usual type, Sweetie. Good for you for broadening your horizons and stepping away from Doucheville for a while.” She leans back in her side of the booth, cradling her wine glass against her face and scrutinizing me like someone would an abstract painting.
    “You’re one to talk,” Frankie snaps. “Do you really want to get on the topic of past relationships?”
    Betty’s face pales. “Fair enough,” she mutters.
    Willing to do anything to dispel the sudden cloud that’s descended on our table, I set down my glass, finger the coaster under it, and blurt, “Yeah, the guy whose former fiancée is marrying his brother in less than six months would appreciate steering clear of that conversation.”
    Betty’s smile has an appreciative edge to it. She chuckles. “Gosh, I heard about that! Interesting family dynamic you have there.”
    “Lots of material for a writer like Frankie,” I concur. To the writer, I say, “Make sure you change the names to protect the innocent. (That would be me, FYI.)”
    “I’m not sure anyone would believe a book about you.” What would normally sound like a compliment somehow comes out like less than one when paired with the smirk on her face.
    “I am too good to be true.”
    I meant it sarcastically, but Betty hoots, “Smooth!” Before I can defend myself, she continues, “And speaking of smooth, what are your thoughts about body waxing? Francesca usually likes guys with less…” She pinches at the skin at the base of her throat, as if she’s fluffing an imaginary tuft of hair.
    I instinctively finger the fuzz to which she’s referring. “I, uh…”
    “Your body hair is fine,” Frankie assures me through clenched teeth while shooting her friend a wide-eyed warning glare across the table.
    I can’t help but wonder, though… Is that the problem? Am I too hairy? You’d think a guy into chick lit would be all about manscaping, but except for the obligatory nose-hair taming and neck shaving, I’m an “If-it-grows-there-it-goes-there,” sort of guy. Part of it’s laziness. Another part of it is I’ve never considered it an issue. That was one of the few things Heidi never tried to change about me.
    Anyway, it’s not like I’m sporting a hair sweater, or anything. But if Frankie really does like a guy who waxes his eyebrows, chest, back, and dangly bits (I