That night,Rosesat withTashaandCindyatCindy’skitchen table, planning the event.
Tasha handled the community outreach.“I’llpost on social media, andI’lltalk toMarcyat thePTA.We’llcall it something catchy.‘CurveballsandCupcakes’ or ‘SweetRevenge.’”
Cindy snorted.“Howabout ‘BakedGoodsandBadBlood’?”
Rose laughed, really laughed, for the first time in days.
“Whatever we call it,” she said, “we do it on the field.Iwant people toseewhoIam.Notjust a name in a rumor.”
Tasha nodded.“You’vegot the team behind you.”
Cindy raised her glass of sweet tea.“Tothe comeback of the year.”
And as the night went on, the plans grew.
Flyers.Cupcakeflavors.Aplaylist.Asilent auction for charity.Evena dunk tank.Tasha’sidea, naturally, with her name first on the seat.
Rose watched her friends, her heart swelling.
She’d spent years believing her story ended in heartbreak.
But maybe it was just a long, winding inning.
And she was finally stepping up to bat.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
ByWednesdaymorning, the buzz inPickwickBendwas undeniable.
Flyers for “Baked&Bold:ASweetNightforPickwickBend”were taped to shop windows, pinned to bulletin boards at the rec center, and stacked neatly in piles at the coffee shop’s front counter.Theevent would include free dessert samples, a charity softball game featuring the women’s team, and a live auction with donations from nearly every local business.
Rose was trying not to get her hopes up.
But whenMrs.Trammellshowed up just after the coffee shop opened, holding a flyer and ordering not one, but two chocolate muffins, her heart gave a little kick.
Still, she wasn’t naïve.
She knewBrianawasn’t finished.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Briana stood in front ofDeclan’svet office, her phone pressed to her ear, watching as customers strolled in and out with curious glances.She’dnoticed the change too—more people smiling atRose, more backing away from whispers.Thetide was turning.
And that terrified her.
She’d felt in control, tugging strings, sowing doubt like seed scattered on dry ground.Andat first, it had sprouted beautifully.Sidewayslooks, whispered questions,Roseflinching like she’d been caught doing something wrong.Thatwas whatBrianalived for, the satisfaction of knowingRosecouldn’t walk ten feet without wondering who was talking about her.
But now?Thethreads were loosening.Folkswere circling back toRose, smiling in her direction, choosing to see her coffee shop as the heart of the town again instead of the scandalBrianahinted at.ItmadeBriana’sjaw clench.Nothingslipped through her fingers without a fight.
So she dialed the number she’d been avoiding.
When the line clicked, she smiled.
“Hi,Richard,” she purred, her voice low, syrupy.“It’sBriana.Iknow it’s been a long time, butIhave a story you might want to print.”
The name rolled off her tongue with practiced ease.Richardwasn’t just any reporter.Hewas the type who thrived on town drama, who lived to splash ink across paper that would sit on church pews, diner counters, and gas station shelves by morning.She’dgiven him tips before, years ago, and he’d eaten them up like a starving dog.
Briana stepped away from the window and into the shadow of the alley, her heels clicking against the pavement before she stopped.Theair smelled faintly of feed and antiseptic drifting from the clinic.Sheleaned against the brick wall, her tone dropping into a practiced sort of sweet venom.
