Kitty opens her mouth to respond, but a voice from the booth by the window cuts through first.
“…honestly, it’s embarrassing. Those mail-order bride situations.” A woman’s voice, carrying the way voices do when they want to be heard. “Desperate doesn’t even cover it.”
My spine goes rigid.
Kitty’s eyes flash.
“The younger one landed on her feet,” another voice chimes in. “Married a Sutton. But the older Phillips girl...”
I know what’s coming. I’ve heard variations of it for weeks now. The whispers that stop when I walk into the feed store. The looks at the gas station. The way conversations shift when I enter a room.
“Couldn’t land a cowboy even when she was delivered to one like a mail-order package.” Laughter, brittle and mean. “And now she’s working for the Suttons at Stoneridge? Bet she’s hoping to trade up to the older brother. Probably figures if she can’t get picked, she’ll just...lingeruntil one of them settles for her.”
More laughter.
I stare at my coffee cup. The surface trembles slightly—my hands, not the table.
I’ve heard worse. I’ve survived worse. This is just noise. Small-town people with small-town minds who’ve never had to fight for anything.
But it lands anyway. Right in the bruise I’ve been pretending isn’t there.
Rejected. Unwanted. Someone to settle for.
Kitty half-rises from the booth, ready to throw down with women twice her age. “I’m going to?—”
“Don’t.” I catch her wrist, gentle but firm. “It’s not worth it. Small-town entertainment. I’m sure they say worse about the weather.”
“It’s notokay. They can’t just?—”
“They can. They are. And making a scene won’t change their minds—it’ll only give them more to talk about.” I force a smile that feels like cracked glass. “Tell me more about the tomatoes. Please.”
Kitty sinks back into her seat, but her jaw is set in that stubborn way that means she’s not letting this go.
“You deserve to be chosen, Laney.” Her voice is low, fierce. “Not settled for. Not rejected.Chosen.”
The word hits somewhere I’ve kept locked up for years.
“I have a job, a place to stay. And you’re happy.” I sip my coffee. Swallow the ache. “That’s enough.”
“Is it?”
I don’t answer. Because the honest answer isno, the safe answer isyes, and I’m too tired to figure out which one I’m supposed to give.
The gossip table starts up again. Louder now.
“Shame, really. She’s not ugly. Just...desperate. You can always tell the ones who’ll take whatever scraps they can get.”
I keep my eyes on my coffee. On the dark surface reflecting the fluorescent lights. On anything except the faces of women who’ve decided I’m entertainment.
Goosebumps erupt on my arms as the air pressure changes again. I look toward the counter, where Daniel is still standing.
He’s looking at the table of gossiping women. Tension locks his muscular frame—shoulders squared, spine rigid, hands flat on the counter like he’s holding himself in place.
And his face…
I’ve never seen that expression before. Cold fury is carved into every line and brackets his mouth.
He turns slowly, and his eyes find mine. My stomach drops three floors as his intense gray gaze clashes with mine.
