Chapter Twenty-Six“I don’t care how cold it is,” said Frances. “I’ve been cooped up all day, I think I just wrote a jingle that every person in the United States is going to be cursing me for—massive earworm, haha—and so anyway, I’d like to look at something besides your sweet face.”
“Nico or Pascal, I’m guessing you have in mind?” said Molly, putting away the last dishes from the dishwasher.
“They are easy on the eyes,” said Frances, grinning. She was standing in front of the mirror in the foyer, trying to tie her scarf in that chic way Frenchwomen seemed to manage so effortlessly. “Holy smokes, Molls, how do they do it?” she said, frustrated, whipping the end over, under and around, and looking half-strangled.
“I think it’s genetic,” said Molly. She stood next to her friend and swoope
