In the control booth, my producer—Tom, bless his eternally tense soul—arched a single eyebrow at me like he was doing the world’s slowest mental math.
“Too much?” I asked, popping off my mic.
He didn’t answer right away.
Then, “Spicy.”
I grinned. “But accurate?”
He exhaled through his nose, the sound of a man who already knew we were in for inbox hell. “You might trend.”
“Well,” I said, standing and brushing imaginary lint off my blazer, “so will he.”
And I meant it.
Because if Kieren Walker hadn’t noticed me before?
He was about to. You didn’t ditch cancer kids without any explanation. It wasn’t… it wasn’t done.
The second I stepped off the set, I kicked off my heels like they’d personally wronged me.
Circulation returned to my feet with a vengeance—tingling, stabbing pins and needles—and I hissed out a breath, rotating my ankles one at a time like I was auditioning for a very angry, very tired ballet.
Regret? Nope. Not a shred.
People might call it a hit piece. Maybe it was. But Kieren Walker had it coming.
He ditched a charity event for pediatric cancer patients. Not just any charity event—I was covering it, spotlighting those kids, those families. They practiced their lines to thank him. Made him handmade cards. One girl shaved her head early just to be able to show her henna tattoo of the Storm logo and his number when he showed up.
Except he didn’t.
No call. No message. Just… didn’t show.
And when I asked about it a week later? His agent said he was “unavailable for comment.”
He ghosted cancer kids.
But none of that mattered to anyone because the man had cheekbones sharp enough to slice through steel and a left-footed clearance that made national highlight reels. Women fawned over his jawline. Men praised his discipline. Coaches gave him leeway. Fans made excuses.
He could be absolute trash as a person and somehow still win the public relations lottery—and that pissed me off more than I cared to admit.
I needed air. And sugar.
The Honey & Hearth Café was the kind of place that smelled like cinnamon year-round and felt like a hug the second you stepped inside. Mismatched chairs surrounded small round tables, each topped with crocheted doilies and tiny glass vases holding whatever wildflowers were in season. The walls were a warm honey-yellow, lined with black-and-white photos of local families, some dating back decades—including one of my grandfather grinning beside Mr. Albright, both of them holding up fishing poles like prized swords. A chalkboard menu hung above the counter in swooping handwriting, promising fresh danish, seasonal pies, and tea steeped just the way you liked it.
The café sat tucked between a used bookstore and an antique shop, its awning faded but charming, like everything in this part of town. A bell jingled as I pushed through the door.
“Daphne!” Mrs. Albright lit up behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. “We just pulled out the fresh batch of strawberry danish.”
“You always know what I need before I do.” I smiled, breath finally slowing. “One of those, and a tea—earl grey if you’ve got it.”
“Of course, honey.”
Mr. Albright waved from the kitchen doorway. “Tell your mama I still owe her a rematch in cards.”
“I will,” I said with a laugh. “Though she swears you cheat.”
“Only when I’m losing.”
