“Cassie! Oh my goodness,Cassie!”
She froze. That voice. That particular pitch of weaponized concern.
Marjorie descended upon her like a cashmere-wrapped vulture, all sympathetic head tilts and performative worry. “Howareyou, dear? We’ve all been soworried. Susan started a prayer chain. Linda dropped off a casserole, but I told her you probably weren’t up for visitors.”
“I’m fine, Marjorie.”
“Of course you are. Ofcourseyou are.” The head tilt intensified. “It’s just that we heard about your little… episode. At work. Thefloatingthings.” She whispered the last part like it was a communicable disease. “Is it stress? Linda thinks it’s stress. I told her, that poor woman, divorced, living alone with just a cat and a strange man?—”
“Liam is my contractor.”
“Mmm.” Marjorie’s eyes slid to Liam, who was standing close enough to intervene but far enough to pretend he wasn’t listening. “Very dedicated contractor. Lives with you. Doesn’t seem to leave.”
“He’s renovating the kitchen.”
“For three weeks?”
“It’s a big kitchen.”
Marjorie smiled the smile of a woman who was absolutely going to post about this conversation thesecond she got home. “Well. We’re just glad you’reokay. You know where to find us if you need anything. Anything at all.”
She drifted away, probably to spread the good news that Cassie Morgan was alive, at the farmers market, and still lying about her live-in “contractor.”
Cassie’s hands were shaking. Just slightly. Just enough that she shoved them in her pockets before anyone could notice.
“Strategic retreat is still on the table,” Liam murmured.
“Tomatoes,” she said through gritted teeth. “Pie. Smiling.”
She made it to the honey booth before the next disaster struck.
“Cassie? Oh wow,Cassie!”
That voice. Different from Marjorie’s. Worse.
She turned slowly, like a woman facing a firing squad, and found herself looking at Derek and Brittany.
Derek looked exactly like he always looked—expensive haircut, golf tan, the particular smugness of a man who’d traded his midlife crisis for a younger model and considered it a win. He was wearing one of those quarter-zip pullovers that cost more than her car payment.
Brittany was… Brittany. Twenty-eight. Yoga-toned. Blonde in a way that suggested significant salon investment. She was holding a green juice and looking at Cassie with an expression of such aggressive compassion that it almost came back around to being threatening.
“We heard about your work thing,” Derek said, in the tone he used to use when explaining why she couldn’t be trusted with the financial planning. “Linda told us. It sounds like it was really… intense.”
“I’m fine.”
“Of course you are.” He didn’t believe her. He’d never believed her. “It’s just, you know, these things can escalate. Maybe you should talk to someone? A professional?”
“I have a therapist.”
“Oh good. Good. That’s healthy.” He nodded like he’d achieved something. “Self-care is so important. Brittany’s really into self-care. Aren’t you, babe?”
“Totally.” Brittany beamed. “I do a gratitude practice every morning. And manifestation work. Have you tried manifestation, Cassie? It’s literally life-changing.”
Cassie’s eye twitched. “I’ve been manifesting some things lately, actually.”
“See? That’s amazing! The universe really does respond when you put out positive energy.”
“Speaking of positive energy.” Derek’s expression shifted to something almost genuine, which was somehow worse than the smugness. “I should mention—my car had this weird thing happen? Itturned pink. Like, bright pink. The dealership has no idea what caused it. Some kind of chemical reaction, they think. Had to get it completely repainted.”
