Guilty Pleasure (Redemption #4) - Jessica Prince Page 0,4

when I looked in the fridge this morning, all I discovered was a wedge of what I thought was once cheese, some tomatoes that had more wrinkles than the old lady from Titanic, and a bottle of mustard, the redheaded stepchild of condiments.

Avoiding the townsfolk was no longer an option, so I’d sucked it up and grabbed the keys to Sissy’s ancient Lincoln Continental—I’d sold my own car for a nice chunk of change, putting the money I got for it toward my aunt’s debt—and headed out.

Moving through the aisles of the grocery store, I did my best to focus solely on the task at hand, not the lingering looks and muffled whispers from everyone I passed. Given how tired I was, it was surprisingly easy to ignore the negative vibes blasting me from all sides.

A few people met my eye, and just for a second I thought maybe not everyone in this town hated me. That was, until I offered up a smile or nod and got nothing but nastiness in return.

I stopped trying after the third sneer. If I happened to meet someone’s gaze, I kept my face completely blank, holding that contact for a beat before finally looking away. I wasn’t going to cower or run like a scared little rabbit. If these people wanted to give me the evil eye, I was going to make damn sure they saw that it had no effect on me, even if that was all a lie.

I figured if I didn’t give them any kind of reaction, they’d eventually get bored and find something else to focus on. For the most part, I’d been right, and I got through half my grocery list without incident. I should have known that was just the calm before the storm, because it wasn’t long before the shit hit the fan, and when it did, it hit in a really big way.

I was halfway down the pasta aisle, browsing through the selection of spaghetti sauces when another cart plowed into mine, forcing it back hard enough that the handle jammed into my stomach.

My head jerked up in shock, an apology poised on the tip of my tongue, even though the collision wasn’t my fault, but when I saw who had rammed me, the words died a quick death.

The woman standing before me glared across the tangled mess of carts with vicious, narrowed eyes. “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming back here,” she seethed hatefully.

I made sure my expression gave nothing away as I replied dryly, “Nice to see you again, Lynsey.”

If this were a comic book and I were of some importance, Lynsey Snow would be considered my archenemy. As it was, I live in the real world where superheroes and archenemies don’t exist, so she was simply a bitch who’d gotten off on trying to make my life miserable when I was younger.

Her expression pinched up even tighter, making her look angry and constipated. “You should’ve stayed gone. You got no business being here.”

Gripping the handle of my cart tightly, I fought back the need to grind my teeth, determined to give the appearance of cool, calm, and collected. “As long as Sissy needs me, I’m here, whether you like it or not. You stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of yours.”

I attempted to move around her, but she twisted her cart, keeping my path blocked. “Stay away from Clay,” she warned in a low, menacing whisper. “In fact, stay away from the Morrisons altogether. They don’t need you screwing up their lives any more than you already have.”

The impact of those words slammed into me with the force of a wrecking ball, threatening to take me right off my feet. There had been a time in my life when, not only had Clay Morrison been my whole world, but his family had felt like my very own. I’d loved each and every one of them so much that, when they turned their backs on me, the pieces of my heart I’d so foolishly handed over to them shriveled up and turned to dust. To this day, the loss of the Morrison family was a wound that had never healed quite right. If I wasn’t careful, I ran the risk of having it break open again.

Not wanting to let her see she had the upper hand, I leaned down and braced my arms on the handle of my cart casually, like I was settling in for a chat with an