Maybe they’re friends of Kathleen’s. Perhaps they know me through Mal, who told people about my birthmark, even though he knows how self-conscious I am about it. Either way, it’s in poor taste, and at least one of them—the leggy blonde with the familiar English accent—is in no position to judge me, seeing as she sleeps with a married man.

I grab a napkin from the register, stuff it into my pocket, turn around, and flash them a smile.

“Let me give you a direct answer: yes, I am her. What did you hear? That I stole Mal from Kathleen? That my mom is a bitch? That my late dad is a no-show drunk? Been there, heard that, so let me add another rumor into the mix. This one is also true, so listen carefully—I’m living with Malachy for the next two months. Under the same roof. But I won’t be screwing around with your friend’s husband. I want nothing to do with either of them, so feel free to pass your message to Kathleen.”

And by the look of it, anyone else in this village. It’s official, I’m the pariah of this godforsaken town, thanks to my lovely host.

Astonishment drips from their faces, their mouths limp, their eyes comically wide. The blonde is wearing tight, white jeans and a huge pink faux-fur coat. Her friend is a petite, curvy brunette, with farmer’s boots and a neon green bomber jacket. They’re both nursing steaming cups of coffee.

“How dare you talk about Kathleen like that!” The blonde gasps theatrically, snapping out of her shock.

Never mind the fact that she’s sleeping with Kathleen’s husband.

“Let me guess, you’re here for your inheritance from your father?”

What? Why would I come here eight years after he died?

“I’m not interested in my late father’s money,” I clip out.

I wish he’d been broke, so people would stop accusing me of going after his fortune. No wonder Mal hates money so much. It’s everything people think about.

“Right,” the blonde snorts. The brunette shakes her head, elbowing her friend.

“Stop it, Maeve. I think she really doesn’t know. I’m Heather, and this is Maeve.”

Reluctantly, I shake both their hands. Maeve still looks upset by my existence, and I’m trying really hard not to out her sordid doings yesterday in front of her friend.

“I’m Rory.”

“We know,” they say in unison.

“I didn’t think she’d be that pretty. Kath said she was just okay,” Maeve grumbles, then bites her lip, realizing she said that aloud.

“Do you live around here?” I look between them, trying to break the ice.