Page 30 of Curve Balls and Second Chances (Pickwick Pirate Queens #1)
CHAPTER THIRTY
R ose felt it in her bones.
She’d always been able to read a room. A survival instinct, honed through years of keeping her head high while life tried to chip away at her. She could sense when laughter was genuine, when kindness was real, and when a conversation shifted the second she walked out of earshot.
By noon, the whispers were everywhere. Not enough to confront, not enough to pin down, but enough to knot her stomach tight.
She carried mugs to the dishwasher and heard it in the hush of conversation at the corner table.
She stepped onto Main Street for a delivery and caught the subtle arch of brows, the way voices softened when she passed by.
It was like walking through fog—she couldn’t see the shape of it, couldn’t catch a word outright, but she knew it was there, thick and clinging.
Back at the coffee shop, she wiped down the counter twice, her rag catching on the same scratch in the wood.
The scratch had been there since the first week she opened.
A delivery man had dragged in a heavy box, set it down too hard, and left the gouge.
She’d meant to fix it, but after a while it became familiar, like the wrinkles in her favorite quilt—imperfections that belonged to her.
Today , though, it snagged at her every time she dragged the rag across, pulling her back to the same spot again and again.
Tasha noticed, leaning over from the pastry case where she’d been helping arrange lemon bars and pecan tarts for the afternoon rush.
“You’re gonna rub the finish clean off if you keep that up,” Tasha said softly.
Rose forced a laugh. “ Guess I’m restless.”
“Guess you’re lying.”
The words landed gentle, but firm. Tasha had a way of cutting straight to the truth without raising her voice.
Rose continued to apply the rag to the already clean counter like her life depended on it. The wood creaked faintly beneath her pressure, her knuckles whitening around the damp cloth.
“Why?” Tasha asked after a moment. “ Rose . Why is she doing this?”
Rose stopped. The rag stilled in her hand. Slowly , she looked up, anguish flickering across her eyes before she could mask it.
“Because she can,” she whispered, her voice sharper than she intended. She swallowed hard, tried again. “ Because she wants Acen back and he made it clear to her that he’s not interested. So , the only thing she can think to do is ruin my life because he wants me instead.”
The words hung between them like smoke. Heavy , cloying, impossible to wave away.
She met Tasha’s steady gaze, and for a moment the weight of it almost undid her.
Tasha’s brown eyes were unwavering, calm as a steady current under storm-tossed water.
They reminded Rose of long summer evenings sitting side by side on the bleachers, or late-night phone calls when heartbreak felt unbearable.
Those eyes had seen her through everything.
And now, they saw right through her again.
But Rose pressed her lips together, shook her head, and turned back to the counter.
Because admitting what she suspected. That Briana had started something. That her oldest secret was suddenly dangling over her head again. It felt like handing Briana the win.
And Rose McAlister didn’t hand out wins.
The bell over the shop door jingled, scattering the thick silence. A pair of women from church stepped in, their perfume cloying, their polite smiles too sharp.
“Afternoon,” Rose called brightly, her voice smooth as honey, though her stomach twisted. She tucked the rag away and straightened the napkin stack.
The women ordered two cappuccinos and a slice of hummingbird cake, and as Rose prepared them, she felt the weight of their eyes. Not cruel, not even openly suspicious. Just curious. Curious in that small-town way that meant their interest wasn’t friendly.
She set the drinks down with her best practiced smile. “ Y’all enjoy now.”
They murmured thanks, retreated to a corner booth, and bent close over their cups. Rose didn’t have to hear the words to know her name was in their mouths.
Tasha came to stand at her side, arms crossed, her shoulder brushing Rose’s . “ They’re not worth it.”
“Maybe not,” Rose muttered. “ But they’ll be here every Sunday after church and sometimes during the week, and I’ll feel it.”
“Then hold your head higher.” Tasha squeezed her arm. “ They can’t shame what you don’t let ‘em touch.”
Rose wanted to believe that. Lord , she wanted to. But inside, her secret burned like a coal. One careless breath from Briana , and it could ignite into a blaze she’d never outrun.
That night, after locking the shop, Rose lingered alone at one of the tables, staring at the chalkboard menu.
The day’s specials were still scrawled in pastel pink and blue, the neat handwriting looping across the board.
She tried to read the words, but all she saw was the reflection of her own fear.
She poured herself a cup of coffee—lukewarm, bitter—and sat with it until the shadows in the corners of the shop stretched long and heavy.
Pickwick Bend was supposed to be her safe place. After years of struggling, of mistakes and rebuilding, this coffee shop was her proof she could stand on her own. She’d carved out something steady, something good. And Briana was trying to rip it from her, not by truth but by suggestion.