Adrian Summers. Who the hell does he think he is? God only knows who heard him say all that stuff tonight and saw that photo. Probably a bunch of sons and daughters of other rich families around town … people who will gossip about this tomorrow over brunch at the Lighthouse Café and cocktails at the Yacht Club. I suppose this means I can now look forward to customers coming into the shop and snickering behind the bookshelves.

The more I think about it, the madder I get. The madder I get, the faster I walk. Moonlight shines on Georgian-style roofs as I stride down the block, past a marble statue of one of the town elders—probably someone who drowned the so-called witch buried in our graveyard. Every white fence is perfectly painted. Every shop window gleams. But when I turn the corner and head toward the grassy quad in our historic town common, I slow my pace in front of a multistory brick building.

Summers & Co Department Store.

Angry aftershocks rumble through me. I ball up my hands into fists to keep them from shaking as I stare up at the art deco letters that curve around the side of the old building. I mean, why does this even exist? It looks like a movie set through which Cary Grant might stroll. A dinosaur that should have died out decades ago. But no. Here in Beauty, it’s still going strong. Enormous pane glass window displays from the 1920s, mannequins wearing pastel boating shorts and bright yellow sundresses. And all of it lining the Summers family’s pockets.

For a moment, the rumble in my chest seems to have a real-life echo somewhere around me that I can’t find. Then I see a single headlight and hear the insect-like buzz of a vintage motorcycle engine. A red Superhawk glides up to the curb.

“Are you following me?” I shout at Lucky over the vibration of his bike.

He shuts off the engine. “It’s late, and we’re going in the same direction. You shouldn’t be walking alone. I can drop you off on my way home.”

“No, thank you.”

“I’m not a creeper. Seriously. Someone was mugged out here last week.”

“I appreciate your concern,” I say. “But I can take care of myself. You know, seeing how I’m an entrepreneur who makes my own porn to sell online, apparently. Even though it wasn’t—goddammit!” Great. Now I’m crying.

“Hey—” He pops his kickstand, stands up from his bike.

I brush away angry tears—Temper Tears, Mom calls them, and they are the absolute worst—and turn away from him, walking in a circle.

“That wasn’t my picture,” I say. To him. To myself. To the empty, dark town common.

“It doesn’t matter if it was. He’s an asshole, and if you had a lawyer, you could sue him.”