She braced her hands on the sill. Through the drizzling rain on the glass, her tenth-floor office window gave a dreary view of skyscrapers. Spring was late arriving in New York.

The gray, smoggy sky suited her mood.

However, moods could be improved by food—and she had something to eat. She’d bribed one of the gofers to get her a Shake Shack burger.

Back at her desk, Frankie opened the sack and grabbed a crinkle-cut fry. Yum.

“Francesca, I need your help.” Birgit, her oldest sister, entered with the signature catwalk strut that’d made her famous. A second later, she reclined in a chair in such a perfect picture of anguish that there should have been a violin accompaniment.

“What’s up?” With a sigh, Frankie set her burger to one side. Alas, it’d be cold by the time she got to eat it.

Her sister gave the food an appalled look. “You can’t seriously be planning to eat that disgusting monstrosity. Think of your hips. You’re already way too—”

“You don’t have to eat it.” My burger. Mine, mine, mine.

“Come to my exercise class tonight. It’s weightlifting and aerobic dance. That’ll sweat the pounds away.” Birgit patted her concave stomach.

Honestly, my family. All of them obsessed with schedules and nutrition and exercise.

“I prefer my aikido classes, thanks.” Way back in grade school, she’d won a rare battle with Mama and was allowed to take aikido instead of following her oh-so-graceful older sisters into dance classes. “And I jog, too.”

At Birgit’s skeptical expression, Frankie smirked. “Just yesterday, in fact.”

A friend’s crazy kids loved to fly drones. Unfortunately, the so-called drone obstacle avoidance stuff didn’t always work, and there were plenty of drone-meets-light pole crashes. She’d gotten plenty of exercise while chasing after the silly machines.

“Stunning bodies take dedication, Francesca,” Birgit said.

Don’t roll your eyes; don’t roll your eyes. Both of Frankie’s siblings approached exercise like a nun would the rosary. Why couldn’t Mama have been a lawyer or doctor? Or a farmer. Farming would be cool.

But nooo. Norwegian and gorgeous, Mama had been a top model, married her favorite fashion photographer, the Bocelli, and opened a modeling agency.

Birgit and Anja resembled Mama and were models.

Frankie, the baby of the family, got Papà’s Italian DNA. Brown eyes, brown hair, and big breasts. At least she’d managed to be five-six, or she would’ve felt like a Hobbit. Papà’s mama was only five-one.

“Really,” her sister continued, “you need to get into HIIT and alternate that with Pilates and—”

“Birgit.” Years of experience let Frankie interrupt the rant. “What was it you needed?”