“Exactly. Learn to see past the surface—with men and women. It’ll save you a world of hurt.”

Hurt. Bull turned away, mouth tight. If Dad had really seen the restaurant owner who wanted him, maybe he’d have stayed away from her. Maybe he’d still be alive.

And Bull wouldn’t be in Alaska with a bunch of strangers.

Chapter One

It is not your outward appearance that you should beautify, but your soul, adorning it with good works. ~ Clement of Alexandria

“I’ll speak to the stylist about her schedule and see if she can fit in more time for you,” Frankie Bocelli told the woman in the doorway, who was afraid the newer and younger models were getting more attention from the stylist than she was.

Che cavolo. What the heck? How petty. Typing a reminder to follow through, Frankie put a stranglehold on her mouth. She must be polished and gracious. Always. No matter what.

Besides, fighting amongst the models was to be expected. To them, hair and makeup stylists were as important as her organizational software was to her. So, don’t be judgy.

“Thanks, Francesca.”

Francesca. Ugh. “You’re very welcome.” Watching the model strut out of the office, Frankie rubbed her face. Why in the world was she so grumpy these days? It seemed as if everything irritated her recently—although her annoyance with her given name was long-standing.

Fran-chess-kah. Could anything sound fussier? And it had so many letters. In preschool, she’d still been printing her endless name as the short-named classmates like Eve and Ann headed out to play.

In elementary school, hadn’t she just adored being called Frankenstein or Frankfurter? Not. But it was worse when her breasts appeared, and the boys took to calling her Chesty. Really, her breasts were awesome—thank you, Italian genes—but at the time, well…

Things changed when she started college. Her new friends decided her stuffy name didn’t suit her, and her roommate, Kirsten—Kit—dubbed her Frankie. When everyone started calling her Frankie, her world expanded.

Names were important, a kind of acknowledgment. “I see you.” Being called the wrong name constantly felt like a slow erosion of her identity.

But after graduation, she’d fulfilled her parents’ expectations and returned to work in the family business. Mama insisted her daughter mustn’t be called something as masculine-sounding as Frankie. No matter what Frankie wanted, she’d be known by the name on her birth certificate.

Lucky me. Needing a moment, Frankie walked over to water the plants that lined her window. The African violets were blooming in bright lavenders and pinks as if to urge her to cheer up. Beside them were two plants her bestie had given her—a so-called “money” plant and one to clean the air. Kit was all about useful plants.

From outside came the low hum of traffic, punctuated by honks and beeps. New York cabbies loved their horns.