Never have I been so grateful I chose to go to cosmetology school, despite my parents lobbying hard for a four-year degree.

If Lyle thinks I need Frank following me around, odds are I’ll find my face plastered all over the internet and littering magazine racks. At least I have the skill required to look reasonably presentable while having my privacy violated.

I’m not fooling myself for a minute into believing that a great majority of his fans won’t be looking for any and everything they can use to rip me apart. I follow the media. I saw what they did to Rhett and Nick’s wives in the beginning. The public can be fucking brutal.

By the time I come out, Darci and Margo—along with Liz, who came ready—look like they’ve been waiting on me for a while.

“What?” I ask, grabbing my purse from the kitchen counter.

“That man’s been waiting in the car for over an hour!” Margo looks ready to pummel me.

“Chill.” With a roll of my eyes, I head for the door. “He has air conditioning.”

They follow me out, still rambling about how inconsiderate I am. “It’s his job to wait in the car,” I snap, not realizing he’s standing right outside the door waiting to let us in.

“Hello there, ladies,” the enormous muscled man in question greets, biting back a laugh as he tips his hat to reveal a mass of salt and pepper hair. He opens the door to the blacked-out Navigator, ushering us inside like a proper gentleman.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Frank,” I say when he climbs into the driver’s seat and shuts the door behind himself.

“Don’t be,” he says, looking back over his shoulder to face me. “It’s my job to look out for you, be it from the car, a table across the bar, or a few paces behind you on the sidewalk.”

My cheeks flush. “I didn’t mean for that to come out so rudely.”

He smirks. “I know what you meant.” Frank glances to each of my friends before quirking a brow, and I swear I can smell Vag-agra Falls gushing all around me. “Ladies, stop giving Mrs. Livingston a hard time.”

I’m surprised they don’t moan in unison at the flirty wink he leaves them with before spinning back to face the front.

“Shameless hussies,” I whisper, just loud enough for the girls to hear.

The giggling is nonstop as he chauffeurs us around town. First to the courthouse, of course, where I secure the coveted license and an appointment with a judge at noon on Friday. We follow that up with a swanky lunch at the country club.

And now we’re walking into Mirabel’s, our favorite high-end boutique.

“He’s like a superhero,” Margo purrs, watching Frank fend off reporters.