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I looked away.

She leaned a little closer. "Let me tell you something about Damon Lockhart. People think a man who flirts with everybody couldn't possibly love one woman with his whole heart. But that boy's never been careless with the things that matter. And from what I've heard, he trusted you with the one thing he’s never given away and you broke it."

My chest squeezed. "I never meant to hurt him."

"Well, congratulations. You managed it anyway."

Ouch. She didn't soften the blow. Didn't apologize. Just stood there looking at me like she expected me to do something useful with the information.

I shook my head. "He's never been in a serious relationship."

"And?"

"And that matters," I insisted.

"Why? You think a man needs to collect girlfriends like baseball cards before he's qualified to love somebody?"

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

"That boy's spent thirty years avoiding anything that might tie him down. Then you come along, and suddenly he's looking at forever like it's the best damn idea he's ever had."

My heart gave an unpleasant little kick. "You don't know that."

"Well, I do know I saw him yesterday at the hardware store. He smiled, of course. Made some smart remark about needing a new pair of running shoes. But I've known that boy his whole life. I've seen him break bones, wreck trucks, and get his backside handed to him by a bull with a bad attitude." She paused. "But I’ve never seen him look like that."

My stomach twisted. “Like what?”

“Broken. Defeated.”

I couldn't seem to get enough air into my lungs. Damon had been hurting. Really hurting. Not because his pride had taken a hit. Not because he'd lost a game he was used to winning.

Because of me.

“When a man makes everything look easy, people forget that loving someone can be the hardest thing he'll ever do.” She straightened. "Now, I don't know what happened between you two. And frankly, I don't need the details. At my age, I've heard enough foolishness to last three lifetimes." She pointed one crooked finger at me. "But if you don't want that boy, leave him be. He'll survive. Eventually."

My throat burned.

"And if you do want him, quit making him pay for whatever some other fool did to you."

What? She knew? Of course she knew. This was Valentine Bay.

"Mrs. Valentine⁠—"

"Don't Mrs. Valentine me. I've buried two husbands, outlived most of my enemies, and earned the right to tell people when they're being idiots." She gave my arm one firm pat indicating I’d earned that title. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a hair appointment, and unlike you young people, I don't have time to waste."

With that, she turned and marched down the sidewalk, her cane tapping against the concrete.

I stood there, watching her go. I'd come into town expecting another round of dirty looks and whispered insults. Instead, I'd been verbally beaten by a ninety-year-old woman with a cane.

And the worst part? I couldn't stop thinking about what she'd said.

When you're around, that boy doesn't know another woman exists.

Because for the first time since I'd met Damon Lockhart, I was beginning to wonder if I'd been so busy looking for proof that he couldn't love me that I'd missed all the ways he'd been trying to show me he already did.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Valentine wasn’t the last person to offer their two cents. The final blow came from a six-year-old. A six-year-old with pigtails, purple sneakers, and absolutely no respect for emotional boundaries.

I was just about to climb back in my rental car when I looked up to see a little round face marching straight toward me. Hands on hips. Face serious.