be Nate.
More’s the pity.
Oh, would you stop that?
Hannah tossed a loaf of bread into her shopping trolley and moved on to the next important issue: her own undeniable attraction to the man who paid her wages.
Which appeared to be getting out of hand.
But she had a theory. A theory that explained why his presence flooded her body with sultry, languid heat, why his touch felt like the spark before a fire, why his smile wiped her brain like she was a computer rebooting.
It was her crush, that was all. Her old, sad, teenage crush. It should be long dead, but somehow, the dregs remained—maybe because Nate had left town before her affliction could come to its natural end? Whatever the reason, it had survived like a frozen pathogen. She wasn’t worried, though. Eventually, her body would kill it off, and everything would be fine again.
Hopefully sooner rather than later, because romantic attraction never ended well for Hannah. It was a tragic but bearable flaw, likely designed to counteract the effects of her intellectual brilliance, general competence, and excellent bone structure.
She was perusing the instant porridge and considering ways to speed up the death of her crush when she heard it. The stage-whispers. Those faux-hushed, gleeful tones she’d trained herself to identify from a mile away, because they signified Ravenswood’s foremost currency: gossip.
Hannah did not like gossip. She hated it, in fact. But she needed power, and she needed control, and in this town, those things required an ear to the grapevine. So, quietly, Hannah eased her trolley deeper into the aisle and thanked the Almighty for its well-oiled wheels.
Keeping her movements casual—because she would never risk being caught skulking—Hannah glided toward the siren call of those vicious murmurs. When she reached the bagels in their little plastic bags, all printed with the Statue of Liberty, she paused. This was the perfect position, she decided. From here, she could hear all.
Hannah chose a bag of bagels and frowned intently at the ingredients list. And listened.
“…frightful flash she is, Mam. Dripping with jewels, you know.” The first woman had a smoker’s voice, raw and scratchy. The combination of upper-crust accent and humbler dialect marked her as a type Hannah had labelled ‘Horsey Women’. Horsey Women were fabulously wealthy, tended to have enormous, elegant noses and pink, wind-whipped cheeks, lived on ancestral farms, and neglected their children for the sake of their prize mares.
Hannah’s mode of categorisation wasn’t a precise science, but she happened to know that this particular Horsey Woman fit the mould to a T. It was Kathleen Grey who stood gossiping on the other side of the shelf—and Christ, how horribly depressing that Hannah could discern the voice of a woman she despised through a wall of American bread.
“Oh, Kath,” said the second woman, older and far more delicate in her speech. “I don’t know how you find these people.”
“I know, I know. But that ain’t the worst,” Kathleen murmured, words blade-sharp with excitement.
“I can see by your face that you’re dying to shock me. Wicked girl. Go on, then.”
“She’s divorced if you’d believe—that’s why she’s come here, ain’t it? Reckons she’s getting a fresh start.”
My, Hannah thought acidly. Divorce. What a scandal.
“And a fresh man?” the second woman theorised.
“Not likely,” Kathleen snorted. “Now, I don’t like to make judgements on people—you know me, Mam, I mind my business.”
Hannah barely choked back a snort.
“But it’s clear as day why the husband left. On the one side of her face, she’s quite pretty. But on the other side, gosh, she’s got the most awful scars.”
“Scars?”
“Scars! On her face!”
“How uncouth.”
“I know. I’m so sorry for her. And on top of that—I mean, I don’t really like to say. You know these things don’t matter to me. But on top of it all, she’s, you know...” Kathleen said the next word in hushed tones, as if it were a grievous slur. “Black.” Then, sounding thoughtful: “Or should I say coloured?”
Hannah resisted the urge to shout, No, you most certainly should not.
“Oh,” the second woman sighed. She sounded genuinely put out by this poor, scarred woman’s misfortune. Black, on top of it all!
Hannah realised that she was crushing the bag of bagels in her hand. Well, bugger. Now she’d have to buy the damned things.
“I know,” Kathleen murmured. “The poor cow. She’s probably had a right time of it…”
Further commiserations occurred, but Hannah was saved from hearing them by a spark of searing awareness that thrilled along her spine. Somehow she sensed the presence