Page 33 of Curve Balls and Second Chances (Pickwick Pirate Queens #1)

T he rocking chair creaked beneath her as she leaned back, the sound a steady rhythm in the otherwise quiet house.

The chair had belonged to her mother, one of the few pieces of furniture Briana had claimed when she returned to Pickwick Bend .

The cushions were worn, faded to a pale rose color, with a faint smell of lavender clinging to the fabric.

Her mother had always been proud of that scent, lavender sachets tucked into every drawer, sprigs tied with ribbon on the backs of chairs, oils dabbed at her wrists like perfume.

Now it clung to Briana like a ghost.

She hated that smell. It reminded her of a woman who’d stayed put, who’d never dared leave this town, who’d been content with smallness.

And for years, Briana had told herself she would be different.

She had been different. She had gotten out.

She had gone places where no one knew her last name or cared about the McAllister twins or the softball championships at Pickwick High .

And yet—here she was again. Back in the same house. Back in the same town. Sitting in the same creaky chair her mother had rocked away her evenings in, staring down at a phone instead of a hymnbook.

The irony wasn’t lost on her.

Her smirk faltered, just a touch, before she reapplied it like armor.

Because unlike her mother, Briana wasn’t resigned to her fate. She still had fight left in her. She still had the ability to shape the story, to twist it, to make people look at Rose the way she wanted them to.

The whispers weren’t just entertainment. They were power.

Briana crossed her legs, the hem of her silk robe sliding against her thigh as she set her phone on the side table. Her glass of wine caught the lamplight, rich red liquid glowing like blood in the cut-crystal goblet. She sipped it slowly, savoring the burn as it slipped down her throat.

Every whisper that spread through town was like that wine—warm, intoxicating, filling her up in ways she hadn’t felt in years.

Rose, perfect Rose , with her clean little coffee shop and her neat little softball team, pretending she was the queen of Pickwick Bend .

It made Briana’s teeth ache just thinking about it.

She remembered those days in high school, how Rose had been the golden one. Always steady, always dependable, always liked. Teachers praised her, boys orbited her, even Acen - back then, the boy everyone wanted - had looked at her with eyes that Briana had wanted for herself.

Briana had learned then that admiration was a form of currency in this town. And she’d spent twenty years trying to prove she could buy more than Rose ever could. She had gone out, she had lived, she had escaped.

But when she fell—when the money dried up, when the doors closed, when the people who had once clapped for her stopped answering her calls where had she ended up?

Right back where she started.

Back in the rocking chair.

Back under her mother’s roof, though her mother was long gone.

The humiliation of that burned deeper than anything Rose could ever say or do.

Which was why Rose had to fall too.

Briana tilted her head, watching her reflection in the darkened window across the room.

Her face was still beautiful. High cheekbones, glossy hair, lips painted the perfect shade of red.

But beneath it, she could see the shadows.

The fine lines where laughter had been replaced with calculation.

The slight hollowness at her cheeks that no amount of makeup could fully disguise.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, letting the rocking chair sway with her movement.

She whispered it aloud, just to taste the words in the air.

“They’ll eat her alive.”

It was true. This town didn’t need proof.

They needed suggestion. They needed the spark of an idea, and then they would fan it into a blaze with their own breath.

That was how small towns worked. Nobody admitted to loving gossip, but everybody did.

It was the currency, the entertainment, the lifeblood.

And Rose’s life was ripe for it.

Briana didn’t have to lie. She didn’t even have to push too hard. All she had to do was tilt her head, smile faintly, and let her words trail off in the right direction.

“Bless her heart.”

That was enough.

Because bless her heart was Southern for wait until you hear this.

Her phone buzzed again, the screen lighting up with another message. This one wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

“Never thought she’d let something like that happen.”

Briana’s smile sharpened as she typed back: “ Me neither.”

Send.

It was almost too easy.

She leaned back again, the chair groaning in protest. For a moment, she closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of the rocking soothe her. She could almost imagine her mother sitting there, humming softly, hands folded in her lap. But Briana wasn’t humming hymns. She was orchestrating downfall.

And the sweetest part?

She didn’t even have to lie.

Rose had given her the truth years ago, whether she knew it or not.

Briana had just been smart enough to keep it tucked away, waiting for the day it might serve her.

Oh , she had enjoyed scaring Rose back in those days.

Letting Rose think she was going to tell the whole town her precious little secret.

But , even then, she’d known this secret might be an ace up her sleeve someday.

And how right she’d been to keep it carefully tucked away until the right time.

That day had arrived.

The night deepened around her. Outside , cicadas buzzed, a low, pulsing song.

The air was heavy, thick with June heat, pressing against the windows.

Briana’s skin prickled with it, but she didn’t move to open a window.

She liked the closeness, the way it mirrored the pressure she was applying to Rose’s world.

Slow. Suffocating . Inescapable .

She sipped her wine again, lips curving against the glass.