Chapter 9 #3
Her matching eye patch tattoo is the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen on a person's face, and I've seen a lot of questionable tattoos in my life.
Jessica sees her at the same time I do, and I watch her entire body tense like she's preparing for combat. She sets down her hot chocolate carefully, precisely, like she's getting ready to need her hands free.
Penelope doesn't notice us immediately. She's too busy marching up to the counter with the kind of purposeful stride that suggests someone is about to have a very bad day.
"This coffee is absolutely disgusting," Penelope announces to Mercy, slamming a coffee cup down on the counter like it personally offended her entire bloodline.
The sound makes everyone in the bakery look up.
"I've been charged nine dollars and fifty cents for what is essentially burnt water with added insult.
This is completely unacceptable. This town is completely unacceptable. "
I watch Mercy's expression carefully. It doesn't change much on the surface, but I catch the way her jaw tightens, the way her fingers curl slightly against the counter.
Mercy has been running this bakery for probably years, but there's something about Penelope's tone that would make anyone want to throw something.
"The coffee is three dollars," Mercy says calmly, her voice carrying the kind of measured patience that suggests she's counting to ten in her head. "We don't charge nine fifty for coffee."
Penelope waves her hand dismissively, like she's brushing away an annoying insect. The gesture is so entitled it makes my teeth clench.
"The pastry, then," Penelope says impatiently, not even looking at Mercy directly.
She's scanning the bakery like she's searching for someone else to complain to, someone more important.
"Whatever. The point is that I've been charged an exorbitant amount of money for subpar goods, and I want to speak to the manager. "
Several people in the bakery are actively watching now. The chess players have stopped mid-game. The couple in the corner has abandoned their pastry. Even the barista preparing drinks behind the counter has paused to witness this spectacular display of entitled behavior.
"I'm the owner," Mercy says, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement makes her look bigger, more solid.
More immovable. "And the coffee is three dollars, the pastry is five dollars, which comes to eight dollars.
You've been charged correctly according to the menu board that's displayed right behind me. "
She gestures to the large chalkboard menu mounted on the wall, the prices clearly visible and completely reasonable for a mountain town bakery.
Penelope's face goes red, the color creeping up her neck and into her cheeks like a visible manifestation of her anger.
Her scent spikes with something that smells like alpha rage mixed with petulance, except she's not an alpha.
She's whatever weird beta-omega hybrid is supposed to exist, and apparently, she never got the memo about not throwing tantrums like a toddler who didn't get the toy they wanted.
"I'm not paying," she announces, turning to leave like this settles the matter entirely.
I've seen a lot of entitled behavior in my time planning weddings for rich people who think money exempts them from basic courtesy, but this is next level.
Mercy's voice cuts through the space like a knife. “You are! After you waltzed in here, rudely, then took over two large tables and demanded to be served immediately. Usually folks come in and pay at the counter, but you wanted to be served first!”
Penelope stops mid-stride, her hand on the door handle.
"One way or another, you're going to pay," Mercy continues, her tone shifting to something harder.
Something that suggests she's done being polite.
"And if you don't, I'm putting your name and photo on the wall of shame, which is already displaying approximately twelve other people from this town who thought they could get free food and coffee. "
She points to the wall beside the counter, and sure enough, there's a bulletin board labeled "Wall of Shame" with printed photos and names of people who apparently tried to skip out on their bills.
It's glorious. It's petty. It's exactly the kind of small-town justice that makes places like Pine Hollow both wonderful and terrifying.
I watch Penelope's face as she processes this information, and I can see the exact moment she realizes that Mercy is not someone she can intimidate or manipulate into giving her what she wants.
Her expression cycles through several emotions in rapid succession: anger, disbelief, calculation, and finally something that looks almost like fear.
"This is ridiculous," Penelope snaps, but her voice has lost some of its imperious edge.
She's retreating now, even if she's trying to make it look like she's still in control.
She reaches into her designer purse and pulls out what looks like a credit card, holding it between two fingers like it's contaminated.
"I'm leaving a negative review on every platform I can find.
This town is a joke. This bakery is a joke. You're all jokes."
She crosses back to the counter and slams the card down with enough force to make the register equipment jump slightly.
Mercy takes the card without comment and runs it through the machine. The equipment beeps once, processing the transaction.
Then it beeps again.
And again.
The sound fills the sudden silence of the bakery like an alarm.
Penelope's expression shifts from anger to panic, and something in my omega brain recognizes that panic immediately.
It's the same panic I felt when my credit card got declined at the grocery store because Ben had cleared out our joint account without telling me.
The same panic that comes from realizing your financial situation is not what you thought it was, and everyone is watching you realize it.
"Card declined," Mercy says, sliding it back across the counter.
The two words hang in the air like an accusation.
"Try it again," Penelope says, her voice tight. The imperious tone is completely gone now, replaced by something that sounds almost desperate.
Mercy runs the card again. Same beeps. Same result.
"Tried it three times," Mercy says, her voice softer now but still firm. "It's declined."
I watch Penelope's face crumble slightly, watch the mask of confidence slip just enough to reveal the panic underneath.
She's reaching for her phone with shaking hands, probably about to call Ben, probably about to have a very uncomfortable conversation about why her credit card isn't working at a bakery in Colorado.
"I don't have another card on me," Penelope finally admits, and her voice has lost all of its aggressive edge. She sounds almost small. Almost human. "I'll come back and pay later."
"You're going to pay now," Mercy says, and the firmness is back. The softness was temporary, a moment of sympathy that's already passed. "Or I'm calling the sheriff. Your choice."
The threat is real. I can see the phone sitting right beside the register, and I know Mercy well enough to know she's not bluffing. She's already reaching for it, her fingers hovering over the buttons.
I make a decision that probably isn't smart, but that's become my new normal.
"I'll pay for it," I say, stepping forward before I can second-guess myself.
Everyone turns to look at me. Jessica's eyes go wide with surprise. Mercy's eyebrows rise. Penelope's expression shifts to something complicated, something that looks like relief mixed with humiliation mixed with anger at needing help.
I pull out my credit card and hand it to Mercy.
"What's the total?"
Mercy looks at me like I've just volunteered to jump off a bridge, but she rings up the total on her register. The buttons beep with each entry.
“Let’s call it an even thirty dollars," she says, meeting my eyes like she's giving me one last chance to back out. "Coffee, pastry, and the damage to my ability to remain patient with rude customers."
"No," Penelope protests weakly, but there's no real fight left in her voice.
"It is now," Mercy says, still looking at me expectantly.
I hand over my credit card, and Mercy processes the transaction. The machine beeps once, twice, and then prints out a receipt. The card goes through without any issues, which is deeply satisfying in ways I can't quite articulate.
"Done," I say to Penelope, taking my card back and tucking it into my wallet. "You can go."
For a moment, Penelope just stares at me. Her expression is complicated, cycling through what looks like gratitude and resentment and something that might be embarrassment. Then her face hardens, and the mask slips back into place.
"You shouldn't have done that," she hisses, her voice dropping to something that sounds almost threatening.
She leans closer, and I can smell the desperation on her, sharp and acrid beneath her expensive perfume.
"You already ruined my wedding. Now you're trying to make me look like I can't even pay for a coffee?
You should have stayed away from Ben and his family. You should have let us be."
The accusation hits harder than it should. My chest tightens, and I feel my scent spike with defensive anxiety before I can control it.
"Your wedding isn't ruined," I say, forcing my voice to stay steady even though her words are cutting deeper than I want to admit. "Nobody's not showing up because of me. But they don’t want to attend your wedding."
The words come out before I can stop them, and the moment they're out, I know I've made a mistake.
Penelope's face goes white, then red, then white again. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again like she's trying to find words that won't come. The panic in her eyes is replaced by something harder, something that looks almost dangerous.
"You don't know what you're talking about," she says, but her voice shakes slightly.
Penelope's hands curl into fists at her sides. For a moment, I think she might actually hit me, and I brace myself for the impact.
Instead, she turns on her heel and storms out of the bakery, the door slamming behind her hard enough to make the windows rattle and the bell above the door ring frantically.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Everyone in the bakery is staring at me now. The chess players. The couple in the corner. The barista. Mercy behind the counter. Jessica, still sitting at our table by the fire with her mouth slightly open.
"Well," Mercy says into the silence, her voice cutting through the tension, "that was awkward as hell."
"Yeah, it was," I agree, finally retrieving my wallet and tucking it back into my purse. My hands are shaking slightly, adrenaline making my fingers tremble. "Sorry about that. I didn't mean to cause a scene."
"You didn't cause anything," Mercy says, and there's something like respect in her voice now.
She leans forward against the counter, her expression thoughtful.
"That woman has been causing scenes all over this town for weeks.
She's racked up debts at the grocery store, the gas station, the salon, probably everywhere else.
She's been telling people that she's going to be rich soon, that she's going to own this whole town. "
She pauses, glancing toward the door like she's making sure Penelope is really gone.
"Apparently she's marrying Ben Burnside for something other than love," Mercy continues, lowering her voice slightly. "Something that involves his grandfather's land and money. People talk, you know. And in a town this size, secrets don't stay secret for long."
Jessica, who has been watching this entire exchange with the expression of someone watching a reality TV show, suddenly appears at my elbow. She's abandoned her hot chocolate by the fire to join the conversation, drawn by the drama like a moth to a flame.
"Wait, are you telling me that Penelope is planning to commit financial fraud, can't pay her bills, and is also planning a wedding that nobody's attending?" She ticks off each point on her fingers.
"That's exactly what I'm telling you," Mercy says, already boxing up brownies without asking if we want them. She's adding extras, probably because she feels bad about the scene we just witnessed. "And my advice? Stay out of it. Don’t start poking around.”
I take the box of brownies that Mercy is handing me, feeling the warmth of the cardboard through my gloves.
"But why would you say that?" I ask, genuinely confused. "If they're committing fraud, shouldn't someone do something about it?"
Mercy's expression shifts to something more serious, more knowing. She leans further forward, her voice dropping even lower so that only Jessica and I can hear her clearly.
"Because if you start asking questions and poking your nose into their business, Penelope's going to claim you're doing it out of jealousy," she says, her eyes holding mine.
"She's going to say you can't get over Ben, that you're trying to sabotage her wedding because you're still in love with him.
And in a small town like this, all it takes is one person believing that story for your reputation to take a serious hit. "
She straightens up, her voice returning to normal volume.
"You're building something good here," she adds, gesturing vaguely to encompass the town, my life, everything.
“Savannah handed the business to you. Just be professional about it. Do everything that needs to be done for a wedding, then if they don’t pay for it, you can say that it is out of your hands. "
She's right, and I know she's right, but the curiosity is already there, already growing, already making me want to dig deeper into what Ben and Penelope are actually planning.
Jessica and I leave the bakery with our box of brownies and the distinct impression that I've just stumbled onto something much bigger than I realized.
The cold hits us the moment we step outside, but it doesn't feel quite as brutal now that we're properly warmed up and carrying enough chocolate to sustain a small army.
Jessica is quiet on the walk back to the office.
Thanks, universe for making this wedding more complicated than it needs to be. If you could do me one favor, erase everything that Mercy just told me. Please.