Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Delaney
One second, I’m standing at the counter with a tray of chicken thighs, thinking about lemon and rosemary and whether Sadie will eat roasted Brussels sprouts if I bribe her with honey. The next, my phone buzzes on the corner of the island three times in a row.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
Group chats, probably. Sloane sending memes. Ivy sending wild child updates. Olivia sending photos of latte art disasters.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel and reach for the phone, still half in my head about marinade ratios.
The first notification is from Sloane.
You okay?
Weird, but not terrifying. I frown and swipe to my messages.
Another one pops up before I can open it.
Olivia: Babe, have you seen the post yet???
My heart stutters.
“What post?” I mutter, even though no one is here to answer.
The next one is from Ivy.
Do NOT read the comments. I mean it.
Comments.
The word hits. Ice water down my spine.
I open Sloane’s message.
Sloane: Don’t freak out. Dottie shared something in the community group. It’s about you. I’m so sorry.
I just… stop.
My brain flatlines. My fingers go cold around the phone.
No. No. It’s fine. This is a small town. Dottie posts about everyone. It could be something harmless. Maybe she’s sharing photos from the Coyote Cup kickoff. Maybe it’s a “Welcome to Town, Delaney!” post and everyone is talking about my cornbread.
Yeah. Sure.
I tap the blue link Sloane has sent before I can talk myself out of it.
It opens Facebook.
Coyote Glen Community Spirit (No Drama).
The “No Drama” has never felt more like a lie.
There, at the top of the feed, is my face.
A screenshot from a food blog article I forgot existed, blown up big and glossy. I’m in my old chef whites, hair pulled back, standing in Marcus’s gleaming kitchen, smiling like I haven’t learned better yet.
The headline posted underneath it makes my stomach lurch.
RISING STAR SOUS CHEF AT CENTER OF MICHELIN STAR AFFAIR SCANDAL
My vision tunnels.
No.
No, no, no…
Dottie’s caption sits neatly above the initial article, written right at the start of my career.
Local News Alert
Did you know our very own new ranch chef, Delaney Rivers, has quite the big city past? Looks like she worked under the famous Michelin star chef Marcus Hale in NYC. How exciting.
My hands start to shake.
“Oh, hell no,” I whisper.
Below that, more screenshots. Someone’s done a deep dive. Articles from food blogs and gossip sites. Paparazzi shots of Marcus outside the restaurant, looking stressed and tragic. Grainy photos of the two of us leaving a staff entrance months before everything blew up.
One headline speculates about whether I “seduced” him for fame. Another asks if I “stalked” him after the breakup.
My breath won’t go all the way down.
I scroll.
I know I shouldn’t, but I scroll.
The comments are already stacked high.
Wow. Didn’t expect THIS in our town.
Is that the same Marcus Hale from the cooking shows??
So she really WAS the other woman??
Yikes. Poor Marcus.
Wonder if Boone knew when he hired her…
Hope she’s not trying that stuff here.
I drop the phone.
It hits the counter with a clack and skids to a stop by the cutting board. My lungs are working too fast, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
They know.
The town knows.
I press my hands flat to the cool countertop, trying to calm myself.
This was supposed to be a fresh start.
No one here was supposed to know about Marcus. About the stupid, na?ve version of me who thought love could excuse terrible choices. I came here to be Delaney, who makes casseroles and braids a six-year-old’s hair, not Delaney who’s involved in a scandal.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the words are already burned into the backs of my eyelids.
Stalker.
Obsessed.
Just a sous chef. No one really cares about you.
Marcus’s voice slides in, smooth and poisonous, weaving through the internet noise like it owns the space.
I grab the phone again, fingers clumsy, and shove it into my apron pocket like that’ll keep the whole town from seeing.
Too late.
My chest tightens, heat pricking behind my eyes. I am not going to cry. Not here. Not now. Not because of them.
I’m at work. I have a job. I have a schedule. The roast chicken isn’t going to marinate itself.
I turn back to the tray of thighs. They’ve been patted dry, lined up neatly like soldiers. I reach for the salt bowl, and my hand shakes so badly I knock it over, crystals skittering across the counter in a glittering avalanche.
“Great,” I mutter. “Perfect.”
I grab a rag to swipe it up, but my vision blurs and suddenly the salt triplicates, refracting in a wash of tears I can’t blink away fast enough.
I choke on a breath.
No. No crying. Crying is what I did in that alley after Marcus told me I’d ruined his life. Crying is what I did when I packed up my stuff before I moved here.
I left crying behind with my old zip code.
Except… apparently, I didn’t.
A tear slips down my cheek, hot and traitorous.
Then another.
My chest caves, shoulders curling in like I can make myself smaller, like I can physically hide from all those people staring at their phones and saying my name.
They’re going to tell each other in Granger’s Goods. At the school. In line at Coyote Cup. They’re going to talk about me at The Hollow, between cornhole throws and wings.
Did Boone see it?
Silas definitely saw it. He never lets go of his phone. Caleb… maybe not yet. He avoids social media like a disease.
But he will know.
They’ll all know.
They’ll see the one version of the story that managed to go viral, and I’ll be right back where I was in New York. Standing in the middle of a storm I helped create, but didn’t ask to be dragged through.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
The first sob hits like a punch, ripping up my throat before I can swallow it down. It sounds too loud, ugly in the quiet morning kitchen, bouncing off tile and stainless steel.
I slap a hand over my mouth.
Another one comes anyway.
I slide down the cabinet before my legs can decide for me, back pressed to the wood, apron bunching around my hips. I curl into myself, knees up, arms braced around my middle like I can hold myself together by force.
My breath turns shallow, fast.
What if Boone regrets hiring me?
What if Sadie hears someone say something at school?
What if…
The kitchen door swings open.
“Delaney, do you want…”
I jerk, head snapping up, tears burning hot tracks down my cheeks.
Caleb freezes in the doorway.
For a heartbeat, everything stops. His hand still on the knob, his body half in shadow from the hallway, eyes widening as they take me in. On the floor, apron crooked, salt spilled like shattered glass.
He looks like someone just kicked him in the chest.
“Hey,” he says softly. “What’s going on?”
I swipe at my face, mortified. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
My voice comes out cracked and obviously not fine.
His brows draw together. He shuts the door gently behind him, moving toward me like you move toward a skittish horse. Slow, open hands, no sudden noise.
“Delaney.”
I drag in a breath that feels like it has edges.
“It’s stupid,” I say quickly. “It’s just… coffee. I burned the coffee.” Could I be any worse at lying?
His gaze flicks to the coffee pot on the counter, which is very much not burned. He doesn’t call me on it.
Instead, he crouches down a few feet away, putting us at eye level. He doesn’t crowd me. Doesn’t touch me. Just… settles in, arms resting loosely on his knees.
“What happened?” he asks quietly.
The concern in his eyes just makes the tears worse. They brim and spill before I can blink them back, hot and humiliating.
“I didn’t want this to happen here,” I blurt, wobbling. “This was supposed to be… different. I was supposed to be different.”
His jaw flexes.
His expression shifts.
My phone buzzes again in my pocket, like it wants to remind me that it’s still there, still carrying a thousand eyes and opinions and sharp little knives.
Caleb’s gaze drops to the outline of it against my apron.
“Did someone say something to you?” he asks. “Online?”
I flinch.
He exhales. “Dottie?”
A bitter laugh coughs out of me. “Of course you guessed.”
“Ivy texted Silas,” he admits. “He told me there was a post. I haven’t looked yet.”
Yet.
The word hangs between us like a blade.
He’s going to know. Even if he refuses to read a single comment, he’s going to know the headlines. The version of me the internet built out of pixels and gossip and Marcus’s PR team.
My throat tightens.
“They know,” I whisper. “Everyone knows.”
He doesn’t ask what I mean. Doesn’t make me say it out loud. Somehow, that’s worse and better all at once.
“You’re trending on Coyote Glen Facebook,” I say, trying for humor and failing. “Which I’m pretty sure is the seventh circle of hell.”
His mouth twitches, but his eyes stay fixed on mine.
“Come here,” he says gently.
Before I can protest, he shifts closer, lowering into a full sit on the floor beside me. His back leans against the cabinet, shoulder almost brushing mine, but not quite.
“Caleb—”
“I’m not going to make you talk if you don’t want to,” he says. “I’m just… sitting.”
I stare at him.
At his flannel shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms dusted with hay from somewhere, the ever-present faint smudge of dirt on his jaw like he forgot to finish washing his face. His hair is rumpled, like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times already today.
He is the living embodiment of steady. Of solid. Of safe.
And I feel like a raw nerve sitting next to him.
“What if it’s true?”
The words rip out of me before I can stop them.
He looks at me sharply. “What if what’s true?”
“That I ruined everything,” I choke. “That I… I’m… a bad person.”
My voice cracks. The last two words come out small and ugly.