He wasn’t naïve.Heknew this was a mess of old scars and new wounds.Butmaybe, just maybe, being the one who hadn’t caused any of those scars gave him the chance to be something different.
And different might be exactly whatRoseneeded.
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
Thursday afternoon, the shop smelled like espresso and caramel, the air thick with chatter and clinking cups.Agroup of tourists had wandered in, still wearingPickwickLakeT-shirts from the marina gift shop, their voices pitched just a touch too loud.
Cindy was on a tear, snapping lids onto cups with a little more force than necessary.“Iswear,Rose, if the council thinks they can funnel festival money into repainting the gazebo while the parade floats look like they’ve been held together with duct tape and wishful thinking, thenI’m?—”
The bell over the door jingled, cutting her off.
Rose glanced up, expecting another cluster of customers.Instead, she saw her.
Briana.
The name hitRose’schest like a thrown stone.
Briana stood framed in the doorway in sleek white jeans and a chambray blouse that looked like it had never seen a wrinkle.Herhair was curled toSouthernperfection, glossy and swinging over her shoulders.Andher expression—sugary sweet with just enough twist to curdle cream.
Rose’s stomach clenched so hard she had to grab the counter for balance.Theroom itself seemed to pause, conversations dropping by half a note.
“Afternoon,”Brianasaid brightly, ignoring the hush that rippled through the coffee shop.
Cindy stiffened behind the register, lips pressing into a thin line, but she said nothing.
Rose wiped her hands on a towel, buying herself a breath before she straightened slowly.Herthroat was dry, but her voice came out steady.“CanIhelp you?”
“Oh,Idon’t know.”Briana’ssmile sharpened.“Ithought maybeI’dgrab a coffee.Supporta local business.Small-town girl and all.”
Rose stepped out from behind the counter, sliding into the space betweenBrianaandCindylike a buffer.“We’repretty busy.”
“I’ll be quick.”Briana’seyes sparkled like she knew exactly what she was doing.
She waited patiently at the register whileCindyrang her up, black coffee, no cream, no sugar.Thedrink of someone with a blackmail folder in her purse and no time for nonsense.
Rose knew it was all theater.Brianacould’ve gone to the café down the block, or the new smoothie bar by the boutique hotel.Could’vepicked anywhere buthere.Shehadn’t come for coffee.She’dcome for an audience.
When the cup slid across the counter,Brianalifted it with both hands, perfectly manicured nails catching the light.
“You know,Rose,” she said casually, “it’s funny how things always come back around, isn’t it?”
Rose’s jaw ached as she clenched it.“Somethings should’ve stayed gone.”
Briana smiled, sweet as poison.“That’sone way to look at it.Ormaybe this town has a way of remembering what’s real.What’smeant to be.”
The words slid underRose’sskin, hot and sharp.Sheopened her mouth, butCindybeat her to it—dropping a spoon onto the counter with a clatter that echoed through the shop.
A couple of heads swiveled, whispering.
Rose ignored them, her pulse pounding.“Ifyou’re referring toAcen?—”
“Oh, honey,”Brianainterrupted with a soft laugh.“I’mnot the one trying to rewrite history.”
The words dripped with insinuation.Acen’sname was a knifeBrianatwisted with a practiced hand.
Cindy’s nostrils flared, but she kept her voice even.“We’vegot orders piling up,Rose.”
Translation: don’t let her bait you.
