Chapter 22
PEYTON
Wednesday afternoon, I slice the packing tape on the last of my boxes with a cutter and crouch next to it to riffle through the content, my back sore. The label says “kitchen,” written in the same foreign handwriting that has guided me through unpacking my life for the past three days.
I remove the few mugs and bowls that weren’t Matt’s, setting them in the cabinets, and slap my dry-erase magnetic board onto the fridge. How did Liam’s guy even know what to get? Did he make Matt follow him around the house and point at everything that was mine?
At the bottom of the box, I discover a velvet-lined hard case that I don’t recognize. I lift the lid, and a laugh bubbles up from my chest. It’s Matt’s chrome-plated, fancy wine opener.
I turn it over in my hands, the weight vindicating.
Liam got it for me just because I asked. It’s so petty. So unnecessary. It’s the sweetest thing a man has ever done for me.
My belly responds with an inconvenient flutter.
I stand up, hugging the opener to my chest and grinning like an idiot. I set it on the counter, where it gleams under the spotlights as a shiny middle finger to my past life.
The digital clock on the oven reads 6.45 p.m. I have to eat earlier tonight to go to my first book club meeting.
I don’t know what time Liam will be back, and I’m not about to text him asking, Hey, honey, should I wait for you for dinner? Like a normal wife would.
I pull out the chicken casserole Mrs. Gable and I made this morning and heat a portion in the microwave.
I eat at the island, scrolling through Instagram with my free hand.
When I finish, I rinse my plate and load it into the dishwasher. Then I grab the marker from the magnetic dry-erase board and write instructions to reheat the casserole, adding underneath that I’ve gone to the book club.
I sign the note with a simple “P.”
The drive to Main Street takes only ten minutes, but it’s enough for my low-key anxiety about meeting a bunch of new people to spike into full-fledged panic.
What am I doing? Should I be setting roots in this town when I know it’s only temporary?
Three to five years… and I’m calling it temporary, so I don’t have to want anything for myself.
Have no expectations, no desires, nothing that’s purely mine.
It’s how I’ve lived since getting with Matt.
That ends here, in a place where nobody knows me, and I can be someone new.
I’ve been downtown only once—if I don’t count my grand entrance in bridal wear—yesterday morning to get a feel for the place. I’ve started learning the roads, where everything is. Blue Crescent Harbor is small enough to memorize quickly, charming enough to make the memorizing pleasant.
I park across from Shelf Indulgent. Except for the diner in the corner, the bookshop is the only place still open.
A few women are already inside, chatting and laughing.
My stomach does a nervous flip.
I’ve never been great at inserting myself into established groups. I’m not super extroverted or naturally charming.
But Lila said they’re nice people, so maybe not acting weird will be enough.
I get out of the car before I talk myself into driving back to Liam’s glass fortress.
A brass bell chimes overhead as I push through the door.
The shop is a maze of tall wooden shelves with quirky labels—Swipe Right Romances, Thrills & Chills, Staff Picks (Trust Us)—but in the corner, a space has been reserved for a circle of mismatched armchairs and a velvet loveseat.
“Hi there!” Behind the counter, a woman with a sleek, dark bob and lips painted a bold shade of matte red smiles at me. “Are you here for the book club?”
“I am.” I step further in. “Lila invited me. I’m Peyton.”
“Ah yes, Lila mentioned you might be coming. We’re excited to have you. I’m Rory.” She gestures to a station on the side. “Can I offer you anything? A hot chocolate? Tea? A glass of wine?”
“A hot chocolate would be amazing.”
Rory fills a mug from a metallic dispenser, the chocolate thick and dark, and hands it to me.
“Let me introduce you to the early birds.” Rory rounds the counter and guides me toward two women already settled in the circle. Natalie, a fitness instructor at Gym and Tonic, and Rebecca, a cute brunette who works on her family’s ranch.
She has a warm, inviting face and is wearing overalls with a smudge of dirt on the knee. “Hey! You’re Liam’s wife, right?”
The phrase sends a jolt through me, but I recover quickly. “That’s me. Though I’m still getting used to the title.”
“Don’t worry, we won’t blast you with questions. Yet.” She grins. “Give it a few weeks.”
I laugh, relaxing.
They both welcome me to town and to the book club.
The bell chimes again, and Lila bursts in.
“Oh my gosh, you came!” she squeals and pulls me into an enthusiastic hug that nearly spills my hot chocolate. “Everyone has been dying to meet you. I’ve been talking you up all week in our group chat.”
“That’s… mildly terrifying.”
“Only good things, I promise.”
Over the next fifteen minutes, women filter in. Lila introduces each newcomer while Rory floats back and forth with hot chocolate refills.
Alejandra Flores owns Dye Hard, the hair salon on Main Street. Her black curls are styled in perfect waves that must’ve required three different hot tools.
She takes one look at me and declares, “Honey, those ends are crying out for help. Come in this week. I’ll squeeze you in.”
She says it with such warmth that I laugh instead of being offended. “That bad?”
“Nothing we can’t fix.” She winks. “Consider it my wedding gift.”
Aurora Marino is the assistant chef at A Slice of Heaven, her family’s pizzeria.
She talks with her hands, gesturing animatedly as she describes the new pizza special they’re testing.
“Come try it before we take it off the menu. It’s got this truffle honey drizzle that sounds weird, but trust me, it works. ”
January Jensen is the town librarian—soft-spoken, a little shy, with gentle eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She asks what genres I like to read, and when I mention gothic mysteries and domestic thrillers, her face lights up. “Oh, we’re going to be friends.”
Carrie Montgomery is the mayor’s wife, polished and put-together in a way that rivals Liam’s mother. She’s friendly but also assessing in that politician’s-spouse calculation as if she were cataloging details for future reference.
The town’s sheriff, Ruth Bingham, is also a book club member. She’s compact and sturdy, with a no-nonsense attitude and eyes that miss nothing. Her handshake is firm.
Faye Rose arrives last, a first-grade teacher with impossibly long blonde hair and an easy laugh that puts everyone at ease.
She’s the newest member of the group besides me, having joined two years ago when she moved to town.
When Lila finishes introducing us, Faye gives me a conspiratorial smile that says, We’re in this together.
I like her immediately.
Once everyone settles into the seating area, an orange tabby cat emerges from the back of the shop, meowing indignantly.
“And this is Hemingway,” Rory announces. “He doesn’t appreciate being ignored.”
She produces a treat from her pocket, and the kitty gobbles it up with the enthusiasm of a famished stray, despite his round belly telling a different story.
Then he jumps on the loveseat and sprawls across the middle, stretching out his legs and forcing Alejandra and Rebecca to squish into the armrests.
Rory settles into a worn velvet wingback chair. “Before we dive into the book discussion, I want to officially welcome Peyton to the group.” She tilts her head in my direction. “We’re thrilled to have you.”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the circle. My cheeks warm up.
Before Rory can continue, Carrie claps her hands together. “Wait, wait,” she says, bouncing in her seat. “Does everyone realize what this means?”
She looks at each woman in turn.
“We finally have a Rockwood in the book club,” she declares breathlessly.
Faye, sitting to my left, leans in and whispers loud enough for the others to hear, “This town is obsessed with its founding families. I’m dating an Evans. Ryder mansplained the importance of his surname to me on day one.”
“Oh, hush, Faye,” Carrie says, waving a hand. “It’s history! Think about it. We have an Evans.” She points to Rebecca. “A Callaway.” She nods at Lila. “A Montgomery.” She taps her chest, then looks at Ruth. “A Bingham. And now…” She beams at me. “A Rockwood. The set is complete!”
“You’re like Pokemons,” Natalie jokes. “We have to catch you all.”
Alejandra snorts. “Now that we’re legitimate, we should put up a plaque.”
“Or charge a membership fee,” Aurora adds. “Since we’re so exclusive.”
Heat rises in my cheeks as they all stare at me, grinning, welcoming, teasing. It’s overwhelming, but not in the way the dinner with Liam’s parents was. Not like an audit, more like… an initiation.
I glance at Faye. She catches my gaze and rolls her eyes dramatically, mouthing, “Weirdos.”
I smile back and look at the circle of women. “I’m honored to complete the collection,” I say. “Do I get a sash?”
They all laugh.
Rory, bless her, steers the conversation toward the actual book, a psychological thriller about a woman who kills her husband, hides the body, and then—five months later—he reappears on her doorstep with amnesia. Real or faked? The question haunts every page.
The discussion starts, and for the next two hours, I’m not a runaway bride or the fraud living in a glass house. I’m just Peyton, debating the merits of fictional murder with a group of smart, funny women.
When Rory calls it a night, my throat is dry from talking and my cheeks hurt from smiling.
Lila hugs me again on the way out. “See? Not so scary.”
I smile. “Nothing settles the nerves like debating justifiable homicide.”
Lila tugs me a few steps away from the others. “And how are you settling in at home?” she asks, her voice dropping. “Is my best friend driving you up the wall yet? Is he being nice? Has he been changing his bandages?”