Wonder if Boone knew when he hired her…
Hope she’s not trying that stuff here.
I drop the phone.
It hits the counter with a clack and skids to a stop by the cutting board. My lungs are working too fast, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
They know.
The town knows.
I press my hands flat to the cool countertop, trying to calm myself.
This was supposed to be a fresh start.
No one here was supposed to know about Marcus. About the stupid, naïve version of me who thought love could excuse terrible choices. I came here to be Delaney, who makescasseroles and braids a six-year-old’s hair, not Delaney who’s involved in a scandal.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the words are already burned into the backs of my eyelids.
Stalker.
Obsessed.
Just a sous chef. No one really cares about you.
Marcus’s voice slides in, smooth and poisonous, weaving through the internet noise like it owns the space.
I grab the phone again, fingers clumsy, and shove it into my apron pocket like that’ll keep the whole town from seeing.
Too late.
My chest tightens, heat pricking behind my eyes. I am not going to cry. Not here. Not now. Not because of them.
I’m at work. I have a job. I have a schedule. The roast chicken isn’t going to marinate itself.
I turn back to the tray of thighs. They’ve been patted dry, lined up neatly like soldiers. I reach for the salt bowl, and my hand shakes so badly I knock it over, crystals skittering across the counter in a glittering avalanche.
“Great,” I mutter. “Perfect.”
I grab a rag to swipe it up, but my vision blurs and suddenly the salt triplicates, refracting in a wash of tears I can’t blink away fast enough.
I choke on a breath.
No. No crying. Crying is what I did in that alley after Marcus told me I’d ruined his life. Crying is what I did when I packed up my stuff before I moved here.
I left crying behind with my old zip code.
Except… apparently, I didn’t.
A tear slips down my cheek, hot and traitorous.
Then another.
My chest caves, shoulders curling in like I can make myself smaller, like I can physically hide from all those people staring at their phones and saying my name.
They’re going to tell each other in Granger’s Goods. At the school. In line at Coyote Cup. They’re going to talk about me at The Hollow, between cornhole throws and wings.
Did Boone see it?
