I don’t mind people talking about me as much as they want. I know my limits very well—and I know I’m not crossing any of them.
Besides, I also know that at some point people will get tired of talking about my life. I’ll only be the hot topic until the next scandal comes along. As long as the chatter doesn’t hurt my mother, let them talk.
I play dumb.
“Sorry?” I ask.
My obvious lack of willingness to cooperate doesn’t discourage the woman—whose name I don’t even remember.She pulls the magazine from under her arm and holds it up, showing me the photo.
“Which one of the four?” she asks more bluntly, and I let a falsely polite smile slide onto my face.
“I think you’ve got the wrong door. We sell fruit, spices, and honey here—we don’t sell information,” I say, blinking at her.
A mildly shocked expression crosses her face, and I almost laugh.
So being incredibly invasive doesn’t shock her—but being treated the way her behavior deserves does?
Oh, please.
If only God would bless me with a tea that cured stupidity.
“I was just asking a question,” she defends herself, clutching the magazine to her chest dramatically. The other two whisper to each other, which I completely ignore.
“And I gave you an answer. Sorry it wasn’t the one you wanted. Can I help you with anything else? A bottle of Rosa’s special honey, maybe?” I offer, turning fully toward her with one of the bottles in hand.
“If you don’t talk, people will think you’re with all of them, you know,” she warns.
I purse my lips and arch a brow, pretending to consider it.
“Would that really be such a bad thing?” I tilt my head slowly. “I mean—all four of them… That would be quite the accomplishment, don’t you think?”
The brunette’s mouth falls open, her eyes widening.
Oh no.
Apparently, she doesn’t understand sarcasm.
I almost regret my words when I realize there’s a very real chance I just added jet fuel to today’s gossip.
I roll my eyes inwardly and shrug.
I’m the topic only until I’m not.
They’ll get tired of it.
“So you’re saying that—”
“Are you sure you don’t want a bottle of Rosa’s special honey?” I interrupt again, holding it out.
She lets out a deep, noisy sigh.
“No, thank you,” she says, turning to leave. The other two follow immediately, performing a bizarre Greek version ofMean Girls.
I laugh to myself, wondering if they wear pink on Wednesdays.
I shake my head and check the clock. Closing time is close.
I turn back to the honey shelf, then do a quick inventory of the other shelves that need restocking and get to work.
