They’re customers. Why would I ever need help with that? It’s exciting. Exhilarating. It’s income.

“May I help you?” I ask the first woman in line who’s still standing there with a flush in her cheeks and her phone angled up as if she’s taking a picture of the menu.

But before she can answer, another group of women in their late teens or early twenties file in. The five of them huddle together, whispering loudly. Are you sure? Do you think? I don’t understand how she did it?

They murmur to each other, their gazes flicking in my direction before snapping away when I catch them.

My stomach twists.

I know.

I know before I even reach for my phone, before my fingers start fumbling to unlock the screen.

The photos have leaked.

My fake wedding. My fake husband. My private moments.

The world knows.

My hand trembles as I scroll to find the pictures, but it doesn’t take long.

They. Are. Everywhere.

Jase’s hand on mine. His lips ghosting just above my skin. The stupidly intimate way he tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear like he’s been doing it for years. It’s all been captured, frozen in time, and sold to the world like a goddamn blockbuster premiere. A perfectly crafted moment, staged just right, and yet with so many good, personal memories behind them for me.

It’s fake. It’s nothing.

And yet, the tightness in my chest tells me I’m lying to myself.

But now, it’s out there for the world to devour. To criticize. To question.

For a second, an electric thrill zips through me.

It’s real now. We are real. Even if it’s just in headlines, in speculation, in tabloid gossip. It feels big. Overwhelming. I am officially Hendrix Gizmodo to the world.

Then the panic sets in.

I am not ready for this. Will I ever be?

But definitely not today. Not when my entire counter is covered in half-finished cookies already earmarked for an order and not enough cookies made for an influx of customers.

Customers? Not really. More like looky-loos.

A bead of sweat drips down my back.

“Can I help anyone?” I ask as if nothing has changed when inside I’m absolutely panicking. They just keep staring as if I’m going to suddenly break out into song and confess all my deepest, darkest secrets. Or how big Jase’s cock is. I have a feeling they’d want one more than the other. I force a polite smile as I fight the nervous bout of laughter threatening to bubble up. “We have all different types of cookies. We have coffee and tea.”

“Is it true?” someone shouts out, getting a murmured consent from the rest of the crowd as the door jingles for a third time in as many minutes.

I don’t have to ask what she means. Is it true you’re married to Gizmo?