Chapter 30
Winnie
I push open the door to Haven & Hearth fifteen minutes late, breathless and already flustered, and not because of traffic.
It’s TikTok.
And I’m not late because I was posting something.
I’m late because I wasn’t posting, which I know doesn’t make sense.
But the truth is, everyone is waiting on me because I was stuck in an endless spiral of indecision. After Lucky called me from the airport this morning and asked about the bathroom incident, which I downplayed like it was no big deal, I showered, put on minimal makeup and curled my hair.
I wasn’t meeting the girls for brunch until eleven a.m., so I had plenty of time to do a little filming.
My first mistake was scrolling to check out a few people I follow. Immediately, a notification popped up that I’d been tagged and I clicked it without thinking.
Big mistake.
It was from a huge influencer—one of those lifestyle commentators who usually reviews celebrity outfits or weighs in on PR disasters.
But this particular post?
It was ten full minutes of her dissecting me like I was a trending scandal, not a real person.
“Okay,” she said at the top of the video, with the smug energy of someone about to deliver what she thinks is the only truth. “Let’s talk about the TikTok teacher dating Lucky Branson, a.k.a. Pittsburgh’s golden boy of hockey.”
She used air quotes around the word dating.
“This isn’t jealousy. I’m not hating. But this whole situation feels off. First of all, no shade, but how do you go from dating models and other famous women to a schoolteacher who films herself in a messy kitchen with a rabbit named Buttermilk? I’m just saying.”
She laughed like it was a punch line.
“I get that the ‘normal girl’ angle is cute on paper. It makes him look grounded. Like, oh, look, he’s not shallow, he’s not one of those athletes.
But let’s be honest—if she didn’t blow up on TikTok, would they have ever met?
Would he have even looked at her twice? No, he wouldn’t have because she’s just a novelty and he was probably bored. ”
She sighed dramatically and I was unable to look away.
“Maybe she’s cool. Maybe she’s funny. But this is starting to feel like a brand stunt that got out of hand.
Her entire platform is built on being average—and now she’s trying to keep up with a guy who’s used to red carpets and VIP events.
Girl, you can’t keep playing relatable while dating a millionaire athlete. ”
She tilted her head, voice syrupy.
“And Lucky? Sweetheart. Blink twice if you need help. If this is your rom-com arc, cute. But if you’re serious?
You better be ready for her to be followed by cameras, hated by your fans, and ripped apart online every time she makes a video where her lighting isn’t perfect.
Because no one’s buying this wholesome-girl vibe she’s got going on. ”
The video ends with her sipping from a designer tumbler and saying, “I’m just giving my honest opinion. Don’t cancel me.”
I didn’t comment but I did watch it twice.
It was like a sickness, my inability to put it aside.
To recognize it as pettiness and jealousy and a need to be nasty to get views.
It got to me and I couldn’t stop hearing my own doubts in her voice.
And that’s what messed me up the most—how much her words echoed the worst parts of what I’ve been secretly thinking.
That I don’t belong in his world. That eventually, everyone will see it, even him.
That alone would not have made me late for brunch.
I really tried to rebound and figured I’d film a skin care review I’ve been putting off for days.
I had completed a thirty-day regimen using bargain beauty brands and I needed to report my findings.
The filming was easy—nothing fancy, just real results.
I was on point, funny, a little self-deprecating in all the ways my followers usually eat up.
But when I went to post it, I froze.
I could already picture the comments.
The snide remarks.
The Who does she think she is? jabs from people who suddenly think I don’t deserve to exist online because I’m dating Lucky Branson. I stared at that post button forever, heart pounding, fingers hovering.
And in the end… I closed the app with so much frustration, I wanted to cry.
Three days. That’s how long it’s been since I posted, which might not sound like a big deal to anyone else, but for me? It’s a red flag. I post daily, sometimes twice a day, and I think I might be broken.
And now I’m late, mentally spun out and totally discombobulated as I look around the restaurant while removing my jacket.
The warm scent of cinnamon, espresso and maple syrup relieves some of my tension, but I’m far from hungry. I’m battling low-level anxiety nausea and I’m thinking toast and tea are on the menu.
The place buzzes with Sunday brunchers clinking mugs, soft pop music in the background, sunlight pouring through the tall front windows.
I scan the room until I spot them—Farren, Mila, Tempe and Willa—settled around a table in the corner like they’ve been here for hours and haven’t run out of things to say.
Tempe’s mid-laugh, Willa’s got her hand wrapped around a glass, and Farren waves when she sees me.
Mila’s pulling out the chair next to her for me to sit.
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and paste on a smile like everything’s fine.
Even if I’m unraveling on the inside.
I plop down in the chair after hanging my jacket and purse on the back. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”
“No worries,” Tempe chirps and points to a fluted glass in front of me. “We’ve been sipping on mimosas and took the liberty of ordering you one.”
I take a grateful sip as Willa asks, “You do drink mimosas, right? Because if you don’t, you are not allowed to hang out with us.”
I take another longer sip and nod. “Love me a mimosa.” I look around and ask, “Where’s Mazzy?”
“I’m guessing it was a very late night after the proposal,” Farren says, waggling her eyebrows. “She sent her regrets only an hour ago, having apparently just woken up.”
“Can’t say I blame her,” Tempe says. “That proposal was something else.”
“I was so emotional!” Mila admits, fanning her face. “I think it scared Penn.”
“You were ugly crying,” Tempe teases, flipping her dark braid over her shoulder. “But like… glam crying. Your lashes didn’t even budge.”
“I will say,” Willa chimes in, raising her coffee mug, “while that was an incredibly romantic proposal, Bowie Jane and her T-shirt stole the show.”
Farren lifts her drink in salute. “She nailed it.”
We chat for a few minutes and order food when our waitress checks in. Quiche all the way around and I indulge in a cinnamon latte. The conversation is never ending, and I mostly listen in. These ladies have known each other awhile and I’m new to the dynamic.
“Are you okay, Winnie?” Tempe asks and the table goes quiet.
All eyes shift to me and I feel the proverbial spotlight. I glance around wildly, and then proclaim, “What? Yes, of course, I’m okay. Why would you say that?”
Farren rests her chin in the palm of her hand and eyes me skeptically across the table. “I don’t buy it.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, wanting to be offended but a little impressed she’s picking up on the mass of internal feelings I have going on.
“You heard me,” she says, eyes narrowing. “I call bullshit. Something’s bothering you and if you can’t spill it to your friends while drinking at brunch, how will you ever get past it? You’ll never get better therapy than what’s around this table right now.”
“That’s true,” Willa says with a grave nod.
I glance around. All the women staring at me with open expressions of acceptance and concern and I think… what the hell? My insurance plan doesn’t cover therapy anyway.
My gaze lands and stays on Farren. “North told Lucky this morning about the incident in the bathroom.”
Farren winces. “I’m sorry I told him. I mentioned it offhand.”
“I’m not mad about it. It’s not like I told you to keep it secret.”
“Keep what secret?” Tempe and Mila ask at the same time.
Farren answers for me. “Two bitches accosted her in the bathroom last night.”
Tempe’s eyes widen. “Why?”
“Because of TikTok,” I explain.
Tempe shakes her head. “Still don’t understand.”
I stare at her, disbelieving she’s not aware of the splash that Lucky and I are making on social media. But then I realize… not everyone cares about that stuff.
“You know Lucky and I met through TikTok?” I start by asking her.
She nods. “Yeah… Rafferty showed it to me. Very cute.”
“Well, we’ve posted additional content about our dates, and… the feedback has been… mixed.”
“Mixed?” Tempe asks, a line creasing her forehead.
“Some people love it, and others… not so much.”
Farren interjects. “There are a ton of mean comments out there fueled by jealousy and just downright bitchiness. I mean… there are some real assholes in the world, and two of them went after Winnie in the bathroom.”
“It was nothing,” I say, trying to blow it off but the quavering in my voice betrays me.
All four women go quiet in a soft, subtle shift of attention.
I swallow my weakness, take a sip of my latte and lift my chin. “Anyway, Lucky called this morning because he was worried about it after North mentioned it. I told him I was fine—”
“Bullshit,” Farren coughs into her hand.
I pause, then admit, “Fine… it gets to me, but that’s the price you pay for being in the public eye.”
“How many times have you actually said that… It’s the price you pay for being in the public eye?” Farren tosses back at me.
More than I care to admit.
“Maybe it’s the price to pay,” Mila says gently, her hand squeezing my shoulder. “But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck. I’m sorry people are so rotten.”
“I hate fucking bullies,” Farren mutters. “I really wanted to kick those women’s asses last night. My brother and boyfriend are professional hockey players. I know a little something about brawling.”
That makes me laugh and a tiny part of me wishes Farren had kicked their asses.
“You’re handling it with more grace than I would’ve,” Willa says.
I smile, but it’s tight. I feel it. That coil of discomfort sitting low in my belly.
“It’s not even what they said,” I murmur, tracing the rim of my mug. “It’s that… I kind of believed the comments. That I’m not the type of woman someone like Lucky Branson ends up with.”
Mila sets her drink down. “Why would you think that?”
I glance around the table at these beautiful women, suddenly self-conscious. “When I first googled Lucky—don’t judge me—it was just… I found woman after woman. Gorgeous. Model-level beautiful. And then there’s me, with my teacher cardigans and outdated name and a judgmental rabbit.”
Willa laughs gently. “Buttermilk is a vibe, not a flaw.”
“But it’s hard not to feel like I’m in over my head,” I say quietly. “He’s on billboards. People scream his name in arenas. But I’m not that and—”
“You are gorgeous,” Mila defends me.
I incline my head at her. “Yeah… I’m pretty in an average way, sure, but I’m not a bombshell that can command the attention of a man like Lucky. And this morning, a really popular influencer went on a rant and shredded me and Lucky as a couple.”
Everyone collectively groans.
“Fucking people,” Farren says and looks like she wants to murder someone.
“People are cruel,” Mila says. “And they’re especially cruel to women who take up space in a world they don’t think we belong in. It drives me nuts when women turn on each other.”
Farren nods. “I’ve been around professional hockey for years between Rafferty and North. I still have to remind myself that I’m enough. Not for him, he makes it clear I am, but for the noise. The spotlight. The stories people make up just because you’re with someone public.”
“Same,” Willa adds. “I’ve questioned if I was glamorous enough for King. But that man would crawl across broken glass just to warm up my car in the winter.”
Tempe leans in, smiles softly. “Lucky looks at you like you hung the moon. I’ve seen it.”
My throat tightens a little. “I know he cares. I do. But it’s hard to quiet the voice that says I’m temporary. That I’m not built for his world.”
“Well,” Willa says, swirling her drink, “let me remind you of something very important… you didn’t chase him. He came for you.”
I blink.
“You made a joke on TikTok,” she continues, “and the man showed up with snacks at your school in a borrowed, beat-up Corolla and hasn’t stopped orbiting you since. Sounds to me like you’re exactly what he’s looking for. Men don’t do that unless they are truly interested.”
Tempe nods enthusiastically. “You’re not a side character in his story, Winnie. You’re it. He’s already cast himself in yours.”
Oh, those affirmations are so nice to hear, and I clearly need them.
Farren raises her glass. “To Winnie Shaw—the woman who reminds us that being real is more important than being vapid.”
Everyone laughs and clinks glasses. Even me, though I’m blinking hard to keep the tears from slipping because their support has really touched me deep.
“I guess I just don’t want to mess it up,” I whisper.
“You won’t,” Farren says. “You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not pretending to be something you’re not. You’re being you. And Lucky’s crazy about that.”
“And if anyone gives you crap again,” Willa adds, “send them my way. I’ve got a list of petty insults I’ve been saving since high school.”
We all burst out laughing again, and the weight in my chest eases.
I may not be able to control what people say about me online or whisper in bathrooms or comment under videos—but I can control what I choose to believe.
I just have to keep remembering that, and maybe at some point, it will feel true.