Jessica sets down her mug with deliberate care, her expression shifting to something fierce and determined. "Okay, new plan," she says. "We make this wedding so perfect that Ben realizes what he lost. Not because we want him back—fuck that guy—but because the best revenge is being happy and successful while your ex marries someone he's clearly scamming."
I stare at her. "Did you just become my new best friend?"
"Yes," she says seriously. "I decided thirty seconds ago. Deal with it."
And just like that, I have a partner in this chaos. Someone who gets it. Someone who's in my corner.
"Deal," I say, holding up my hot chocolate mug.
"To revenge, but done professionally!” Jessica clinks her mug against mine. "And to not freezing to death in that office."
"I'll drink to that."
I'm reaching for my brownie, finally feeling human enough to contemplate eating, when Penelope walks through the door like she owns the place.
Honestly, that's kind of her whole vibe. She moves through the world like she's the main character and everyone else is just background extras in her personal drama. Today she's wearing a designer coat, and her expression suggests that she's just discovered something deeply offensive about the existence of this bakery.
Her matching eye patch tattoo is the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen on a person's face, and I've seen a lot of questionable tattoos in my life.
Jessica sees her at the same time I do, and I watch her entire body tense like she's preparing for combat. She sets down her hot chocolate carefully, precisely, like she's getting ready to need her hands free.
Penelope doesn't notice us immediately. She's too busy marching up to the counter with the kind of purposeful stride that suggests someone is about to have a very bad day.
"This coffee is absolutely disgusting," Penelope announces to Mercy, slamming a coffee cup down on the counter like it personally offended her entire bloodline. The sound makes everyone in the bakery look up. "I've been charged nine dollars and fifty cents for what is essentially burnt water with added insult. This is completely unacceptable. This town is completely unacceptable."
I watch Mercy's expression carefully. It doesn't change much on the surface, but I catch the way her jaw tightens, the way her fingers curl slightly against the counter. Mercy has been running this bakery for probably years, but there's something about Penelope's tone that would make anyone want to throw something.
"The coffee is three dollars," Mercy says calmly, her voice carrying the kind of measured patience that suggests she's counting to ten in her head. "We don't charge nine fifty for coffee."
Penelope waves her hand dismissively, like she's brushing away an annoying insect. The gesture is so entitled it makes my teeth clench.
"The pastry, then," Penelope says impatiently, not even looking at Mercy directly. She's scanning the bakery like she's searching for someone else to complain to, someone more important. "Whatever. The point is that I've been charged an exorbitant amount of money for subpar goods, and I want to speak to the manager."
Several people in the bakery are actively watching now. The chess players have stopped mid-game. The couple in the corner has abandoned their pastry. Even the barista preparingdrinks behind the counter has paused to witness this spectacular display of entitled behavior.
"I'm the owner," Mercy says, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement makes her look bigger, more solid. More immovable. "And the coffee is three dollars, the pastry is five dollars, which comes to eight dollars. You've been charged correctly according to the menu board that's displayed right behind me."
She gestures to the large chalkboard menu mounted on the wall, the prices clearly visible and completely reasonable for a mountain town bakery.
Penelope's face goes red, the color creeping up her neck and into her cheeks like a visible manifestation of her anger. Her scent spikes with something that smells like alpha rage mixed with petulance, except she's not an alpha. She's whatever weird beta-omega hybrid is supposed to exist, and apparently, she never got the memo about not throwing tantrums like a toddler who didn't get the toy they wanted.
"I'm not paying," she announces, turning to leave like this settles the matter entirely.
I've seen a lot of entitled behavior in my time planning weddings for rich people who think money exempts them from basic courtesy, but this is next level.
Mercy's voice cuts through the space like a knife. “You are! After you waltzed in here, rudely, then took over two large tables and demanded to be served immediately. Usually folks come in and pay at the counter, but you wanted to be served first!”
Penelope stops mid-stride, her hand on the door handle.
"One way or another, you're going to pay," Mercy continues, her tone shifting to something harder. Something that suggests she's done being polite. "And if you don't, I'm putting your name and photo on the wall of shame, which is already displayingapproximately twelve other people from this town who thought they could get free food and coffee."
She points to the wall beside the counter, and sure enough, there's a bulletin board labeled "Wall of Shame" with printed photos and names of people who apparently tried to skip out on their bills. It's glorious. It's petty. It's exactly the kind of small-town justice that makes places like Pine Hollow both wonderful and terrifying.
I watch Penelope's face as she processes this information, and I can see the exact moment she realizes that Mercy is not someone she can intimidate or manipulate into giving her what she wants. Her expression cycles through several emotions in rapid succession: anger, disbelief, calculation, and finally something that looks almost like fear.
"This is ridiculous," Penelope snaps, but her voice has lost some of its imperious edge. She's retreating now, even if she's trying to make it look like she's still in control. She reaches into her designer purse and pulls out what looks like a credit card, holding it between two fingers like it's contaminated. "I'm leaving a negative review on every platform I can find. This town is a joke. This bakery is a joke. You're all jokes."
She crosses back to the counter and slams the card down with enough force to make the register equipment jump slightly.
