Chapter Eighteen
EIGHTEEN
Phoebe
Jake: I thought Katherine told you what you’d be doing and everything The Hunt entails. I’m so sorry. I would’ve given you a heads-up.
I want to groan at the phone in my hand. My boss didn’t inform me or Hailey what our roles would be during The Hunt. It probably slipped Katherine’s mind, but that doesn’t explain why other servers and bartenders also withheld certain details from us.
I thought I’d grown a decent workplace friendship with Chelsea Noknoi, but the longer I date Jake, the more she distances herself from me, like I could rat her out to the Powers That Be just for serving a lukewarm latte.
Hailey isn’t faring much better.
When we first came to town, she started a fling with Erik the Bartender. She’s been too preoccupied for him as of late. Understandably. But ending things before the holidays did not go so smoothly.
My run-in with him while working last month’s New Year’s Bash was not spectacular, to say the least.
His face visibly turned squeamish like the sight of me caused gastrointestinal distress. “I’m busy,” he told me, rolling up the sleeves to his button-down. Tattoos glided up his forearms and disappeared underneath his shirt.
“Too busy to make a negroni?” I asked. “One of the widowers wants one.”
Erik worked his jaw.
I groaned. “Come on. You can’t be that upset over Hailey breaking things off. You guys barely dated—”
“It was how she did it, Phoebe,” Erik growled. “She said, This was fun, but I’m done . Who says shit like that?”
Straight and to the point. Sounds like my girl Hailey Tinrock. Maybe she wouldn’t have been so curt if she could have French exited and left town without confronting Erik, but that option doesn’t exist anymore.
“So she was blunt,” I defended my best friend. “Some people don’t sugarcoat things. Would you have rather she kissed your ass and left you thinking there was hope in the future?”
He scooped ice into a cocktail shaker with a stink face. “I would rather she have been nice—”
“She is nice,” I argued.
She just doesn’t have breakup experience. Neither do I. I’m sure I would have flubbed a breakup just as hard. I haven’t even broken up with my fake boyfriend! And that was in the works for how long before we shelved it? If Erik knew Hailey well at all, he wouldn’t have taken her tone that badly.
And if he cared about her—maybe he would’ve seen she’s not doing so fucking great. That she has little time for his emotional state because she’s more concerned with her own.
So there .
Erik shook his head like I was wrong.
“You know what,” I said coldly. “I’m going to make the negroni myself—”
“You’re not allowed to mix drinks.”
“Since when?” I’ve made plenty of mimosas and helped behind the bar.
“It’s in the handbook.”
“Fine. I’ll go find Lola. She makes better drinks than you anyway.” I strutted off without a second glance and tossed my maturity in the trash can. Replaying that scenario literally sends thick wrinkles to my forehead in an ugly grimace. Lasting impressions are new for me, and some not in a good way.
Erik responded to that confrontation by gossiping about my best friend to the other servers, the sous chefs, the lifeguards—basically anyone who would listen.
It came out that Hailey also slept with Peter the Valet and Lewis the Golf Instructor before Halloween.
Her reputation as being an “easy lay” has been cemented.
There’s nothing wrong with one-night stands or wanting to keep things casual. It’s basically the grifter norm. Nothing serious. Sex only.
But the staff have taken Erik’s side and branded my best friend with a scarlet A. I feel at fault. Like if I didn’t provoke Erik, he wouldn’t have spiraled. (He also is majorly to blame, too.)
Hailey said she doesn’t care about him or the gossip, but I think she’s been too invested elsewhere and hasn’t seriously contemplated what this means.
The longer we stay in this town, the more we have to deal with the consequences of our actions and the ruin we leave behind. We’re not just kicking up dust. We’re supposed to be here when it settles.
That time…is not now, but I hope peace isn’t an illusion. I hope it’s a real outcome we’re working toward.
My phone buzzes.
Jake: She did explain The Hunt to you?
I sigh and send him a quick yes .
This annual event isn’t like The Hunger Games or The Purge . Citizens aren’t armed to shoot the weak and poor. Packs of men aren’t tracking Bambi with rifles slung on their backs either.
It’s a scavenger hunt.
An innocent, simple, fun time where locals gather together and act like sleuths for the day.
Or so I thought.
“You’re Clue Girls,” Katherine told us when we were one foot into the country club. I thought we’d be assigned to a refreshment table. Serve nonalcoholic beverages, maybe the occasional Bloody Mary. Or we’d pass out VCC pamphlets, enticing locals to join and pay the astronomical club dues.
But no.
We’re Clue Girls .
It has nothing to do with the board game Clue. I already asked.
Katherine Rhodes and her clipboard make their rounds in the country club’s atrium garden. Wearing the tightest, most unwalkable pencil skirt—that she somehow manages to move in—she appraises me and twenty other “handpicked” girls.
Some are servers.
Others are rich caufers and locals.
No one is older than mid-thirties.
We stand among the boxed greenery and sticky humidity. “Why are we doing this again?” I whisper to Hailey, who snaps off a honeysuckle flower and slips it behind her ear. There is most definitely a rule about not picking the foliage.
She’s humming to herself, then stops to say, “It’d be a crime to live here and skip the annual scavenger hunt.”
I raise my brows. “Call me a criminal—”
“Never.” She untucks a rolled newspaper from the waistband of her cargo pants. Her black long-sleeved shirt says Big Witch Energy , but the words are slightly hidden behind a brown tartan sash with Clue Girl embroidered in gold thread.
The same sash accompanies my baby-blue sweater, which has ruffled sleeves.
“And you know it’s going to be fun. I’ve always wanted to be a Clue Girl.” She opens the paper, beginning to speed-read.
I give her a look. “You learned what a Clue Girl is twenty minutes ago.” The same time Katherine roped us into this tradition.
Hailey smiles deviously with her eyes still glued to the newspaper.
She’s been reading the local paper religiously for the past three months. I’m not sure how she doesn’t fall asleep.
I’ve glazed over the paper, and it’s mostly posturing from local city council. New trees planted in the square! Great turnout for the 10K! Sign up for the weekly handmade market! And don’t forget the advertisements in the back for the gutter-repair and window-cleaning companies. Truly riveting material.
I glance around the atrium and notice three more girls reading Victoria Weekly . My brain physically record-scratches. There isn’t any way I’m seeing what I’m seeing.
“Did they put smut in the Weekly ?” I ask Hailey.
She frowns. “What?”
I wave a hand toward Julia Kelsey, who has her nose glued to the newspaper. Her friend reads over her shoulder, and they’re whispering like they’ve somehow acquired Regina George’s Burn Book.
To Hailey, I say, “Because if there’s some spicy articles in this paper, I’m kind of pissed you wouldn’t tell me.” I’m not a voracious reader like Hailey, but I will devour a good fanfic. “You know how much I love Underworld smut.”
She glances at me like I’m out of my mind. “You think they would print vampire fanfic in the town’s newspaper?”
I stand my ground. “We’re about to go on a scavenger hunt, Hails. Dressed like we’re starring in a crossover of Clue and Troop Beverly Hills . Anything is possible.”
She takes this in for a second before nodding. “Valid.” She flips another page. “And it’s not smut. It’s a new column about the happenings around town.”
My brain buzzes like a fly trapped underneath a glass. “Happenings?” I let out a sudden gasp. “Hailey Thornhall, are you reading gossip?” She hates tabloids.
“These are facts , Phoebe Smith.”
“Some gossip is factual,” I point out.
She smiles, but it’s stolen too fast by her hyperfixation. She’s consumed by the Weekly . I try to read over her shoulder, but she flips another page.
Katherine struts right in front of us and smiles warmly at the paper in Hailey’s hands.
Very odd.
“I’m just so proud of Sidney,” Katherine says with the affection of a mother hen to a tiny chick. Even knowing she was Jake’s nanny, I really did not think Katherine possessed a soft maternal bone in her body. More like an iron rod in her butt. “She’s really blossomed with this new internship at the Weekly . Isn’t her column so engaging? Claudia Waterford even called it a delight.”
I feel so far behind.
All because I don’t read the damn newspaper. Sidney Burke stands twenty feet away near the orchids, but I only see her blonde hair and blue velvet Blair Waldorf–esque headband since girls cluster around her.
“It’s an intriguing column,” Hailey says. “I didn’t know that Archer Fitzpatrick adopted a three-legged dog.”
“Wait, that’s the happenings around town? Archer’s new dog?” I say in disbelief. I just can’t believe this information has the rest of the Clue Girls fawning over black-and-white print.
“He also volunteered at the blood bank,” Katherine snaps at me, like I should be praising his very good deeds. “He’s not even thirty yet, but he’s already up for tenure at Caufield University.” She peers at the newspaper in Hailey’s hands. “It’s such a mystery how that man is still single.”
“You could always ask him out yourself,” I suggest.
Katherine blanches. “I’m nearing fifty.”
“And?” I shrug. “You’re hot, and he might like women with good balance in pencil skirts.”
She sucks in her cheeks. Maybe she thinks they’re backhanded compliments—which they aren’t. I admire her ability to dart around in corporate attire. “You’d do well to mind your own business, Phoebe.”
“Like how everyone’s minding theirs?” I mutter at the newspaper.
Katherine huffs like I am a pain, bother, and nuisance she’s forced to suffer with. She digs out two envelopes from her tote bag. “Here.”
Hailey and I take our envelopes, and Katherine struts out of earshot to fix Chelsea’s torn sash. I run my finger over the red wax seal with Victoria Country Club’s mountain-laurel crest.
From what I’ve been told, the country club hosts The Hunt, but the entire town is invited to bid on Clue Girls.
We’re being auctioned off.
“For your clues,” Katherine emphasized, but the way she described it, people are paying to spend the afternoon with us.
“Grey is picking me,” Sidney Burke says so loudly, I instinctively twist around and catch her smug smile. Her chin lifts. “I’m his first choice. He’s already told me.”
Liar.
I bristle. “He’s not going to The Hunt.” I raise my voice so she can hear.
“How would you know?” Sidney retorts, causing the atrium to fall more hushed. Clue Girls are staring uneasily between me and her.
“Hailey told me,” I snap back. “ His sister. Right here.” I point at her platinum-dyed hair. “My best friend.”
Hailey waves, not looking up from the newspaper. “He did tell me.”
“See.”
Sidney coils a blonde tendril around her finger. “I think he’ll be there, and he will bid on me.”
“You’re nineteen . He wouldn’t.”
“You have the maturity of a fourteen-year-old, and he married you.”
Ouch. Direct hit.
Girls snicker, some wince, and Hailey sends a harsh look Sidney’s way. I breathe in toxic fumes to say, “He’s not interested in you.” I sound too territorial, but the concept of Rocky with anyone sends poisonous darts out of my mouth.
I want her dead.
Sidney prickles. “Why do you care? You’re with Jake .”
I’m with Rocky.
He’s my Rocky.
Mine.
I take a breath. “Grey is still my ex-husband. Maybe I think he can do better than you.”
The atrium is uncomfortably quiet. Some girls giggle at Sidney’s expense, and guilt knots my insides for a blip.
Sidney goes red. “At least I’m a step up from you.”
Back off, Phoebe.
I’m trying to retract my claws. She’s nineteen. I’m twenty-four. Be mature. I force a pained smile, and I’m happy to hear Katherine’s strict tone.
“It’s time,” she snaps. “Get yourselves together.”
Sidney fixes her Clue Girl sash on her shoulder. I adjust mine, and my face contorts in an ugly scowl like I’m shapeshifting into a grotesque monster. It’s hard to hide my sweltering disdain toward anyone who’s eyeing Rocky. I wish I could scream that he’s taken.
By me.
But I didn’t come this far to blow up our spot because of Sidney fucking Burke.
—
Pink garlands hang from lampposts, and the fountain on Main Street has been drained for the winter. Heart-shaped chocolates, stuffed bears, and red roses are displayed in various shops like Hidden Treasures and Petals & Pearls.
No one in this town will let you forget Valentine’s Day is right around the corner.
I’ve never been a sucker for the holiday.
It’s just another way for corporations to dig their hands in people’s pockets with the pressure to buy buy buy! The balloons, the candy, the cards, the flowers, the expensive dinner out—it’s a capitalist’s wet dream. It’s kind of one big scam.
It really does feel like you’re getting ripped off.
And okay, maybe I have been played before and bought my fair share of heart-shaped Reese’s cups. But I’ve never dreamed of having a Valentine’s date.
I’ve been more than happy spending February fourteenth watching movies with Hailey, both of us gorging ourselves with Sweethearts candies that give positive affirmations like Cutie Pie and Ur Hot .
Except this year is different.
This year I’m bummed that I can’t go on a Valentine’s date with Rocky, and I’m a little worried if Jake and I aren’t seen out together, people will think we’re “taking a break” when that’s not exactly true.
Wind assaults my skin as I stand on the steps of town hall with twenty other Clue Girls. Goosebumps are mountains on my forearms, and I hug myself to try to contain the warmth from my thin blue sweater.
I’m the only one who didn’t bring a jacket. I blame my hostility toward Sidney, which made me pretty warm up until two minutes ago.
Everyone else is bundled with mittens and hats. Even Hailey slipped on a pair of black leather gloves when we walked outside.
The town square is packed.
Bodies everywhere, none shivering from the cold. Tall gas-lamp heaters have been placed around the cobblestone square to warm the residents, and the richest stay huddled beneath a tent reserved for country club members.
Claudia Waterford included.
I wave my fingers like she’s my mother-in-law to be.
She noticeably cringes, then whispers to her best friend, Stella Fitzpatrick.
I hope you hate my guts. I hope you show me who you really are.
Katherine approaches a microphone in front of us. Clutching a clipboard with gloved hands, she scans the audience with a quiet reverence. She’s spent her entire life in this town. Grown up around the three founding families. Unless you’re a caufer studying at Caufield University or a skunk who’s passing through, she most likely knows you by name.
Not quite royalty but not quite among the middle class, she thinks of herself as the glue, I’ve realized, holding the ill-fitted pieces of Victoria together.
She leans down to the microphone. “Welcome to the eighty-eighth Hunt!”
A round of applause booms from the crowd with a few hoots. Beside me, Hailey’s grin expands, and for a moment, I’m swept into the infectious energy.
Katherine explains the rules of the event. “Twenty girls behind me are in possession of envelopes filled with five clues. These clues will lead you to five golden geese hidden around the town. The first person to bring back all five golden geese will win the coveted Victoria Hunt Trophy and be named this year’s Huntsman. But not everyone can participate in this event. To play, you’ll need to bid and win a Clue Girl.” She outstretches a hand to display us.
Girls give pageant waves. Julia has a sheepish smile.
Hailey is fidgeting.
I scowl and search for Jake.
With an incoming chilly gust, the cold annihilates every inch of exposed skin. I tremble.
“Without further ado—” Katherine’s voice cuts off suddenly as the crowd shifts and parts, letting someone through.
I see the muscled, never-ending limbs and the serious, ocean-blue eyes of my fake boyfriend.
“Sorry, Katherine,” Jake apologizes as he approaches. His long legs practically skip the five steps up to where I’m standing.
He shrugs off his long black overcoat. A chorus of awww s echoes from the crowd as he gallantly fits the coat over my shoulders. I eagerly snuggle inside the warm wool. He bends down to my ear and whispers, “Your boyfriend says hi .”
Rocky.
“Is he here?” I whisper back, my heart flipping, melting, and panging all at once.
Jake just nods.
Do not look for Rocky. The desire to find him tears at my insides, and I force myself to nestle in the woolen fabric. “Thanks, Jake,” I say louder.
“Anytime, baby.” His head slants, and there’s no lingering hesitation. He kisses my cheek.
It’s warm but perfunctory.
A boyfriend would likely kiss his girlfriend in this scenario, and despite some love triangle rumors, Jake and I have established ourselves as a normal, modest couple. PDA is not for us, and no one questions it.
Jake is Polite Panda, after all. He’s not the groping type.
I hear the second wave of awww s from the audience before Jake backs away and descends the steps into the gathering throngs.
Katherine returns to the microphone. “Well, we all know who will be bidding on Ms. Phoebe Smith.” It draws a wave of chuckles from everyone. My cheeks roast, and they burn a thousand degrees hotter when I catch sight of him.
Rocky.
My pulse spikes unsteadily.
Why is he even here? The question withers inside the raw craving of him. Of hoping he will stay.
I do everything to not show the emotion assaulting me.
Rocky stands darkly beside a lamppost, wearing a white button-down beneath a leather jacket and a casual, consistent glare. Arms crossed over his chest and gray eyes shadowed with tormented irritation.
When his gaze latches on to mine, it doesn’t soften. It’s penetrating. Excavating. Digging so damn deep, I’m unsure if anyone else can see the love on the other side.