“It’s fine,” the person responded, sounding like she was chewing on broken glass.

I slowly got to my feet and faced Sophie Lanier. Aka—the love of my life’s girlfriend.

“Oh, hey, Sophie,” I mumbled, hoping I could scurry down the aisle and away from this giant pile of discomfort.

Sophie didn’t even bother to smile in acknowledgment. She took the pack of Twizzlers that I was holding out and dropped it unceremoniously into the basket.

“Hi, Gracie.” She said my name like it was a bad word. Her mouth curled and her nose wrinkled up like I smelled bad. Had my deodorant stopped working?

“Those must be for Mitch. Unless you have an unhealthy obsession with them too.” I tried laughing. It sounded all wrong in my mouth.

“Yes, they’re for Mitch.” She said his name with a territorial edge. Mitch. Her Mitch.

“He’ll appreciate that. He could eat them for three meals a day.” Why was I still standing there talking about Mitch and his love of chewy candy to his less than amenable girlfriend? Especially after our phone call last night. And every intense, consuming encounter that we had shared before that. I should feel shame for lusting after her man. I should feel guilt for loving the person that she claimed as her own.

But I didn’t.

Because in my heart of hearts he belonged to me.

And he always would.

“Thank you for informing me, with all your infinite wisdom, about the things Mitch likes. I sure do appreciate it,” Sophie remarked snidely.

Okay, then.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your shopping. It was nice seeing you,” I lied. I would rather have had a root canal, but no sense in being a total bitch.

“Gracie, was he talking to you on the phone last night?” she asked before I could make my escape.

Why would it matter if he were talking to me?

I looked into Sophie’s narrowed eyes and we both knew that it did matter.

It mattered a lot.

“Yes. We were talking last night. But it’s not what you think—”

Sophie held up her hand and shut me up like a freaking schoolteacher. “You don’t know what I think, so don’t claim to.”

“I was just saying—”

And she interrupted me again!

I clenched my hands into fists and tried to resist the urge to connect it with her cutesy pie face.

“I don’t get it,” she said, her words like acid.

“Don’t get what?” I was going to be late for my meeting. I should tell this chick to hush it and to talk to Mitch if she wanted to know something. But she just. Kept. Talking.

“Why he loved you so much. There’s nothing much to you.” She sniffed again, looking confused but disgusted.

“Wow. Tell me what you really think,” I muttered.

“He was a mess after you left him. Did you know that?” she demanded, glaring at me with a heart full of hate. Man, this woman really didn’t like me. Not that I blamed her.

“I don’t see how this is any of your business. And I have to go. I’d love to stand here and chat about shit that doesn’t have to do with you, but I have places to be,” I replied flippantly, waving my hand in dismissal. I turned on my heel and started to walk away, proud of my super awesome exit when she stopped me again.

“Just leave him alone. He’s better off without you.”

Her words hit me right where it hurt. In the heart. Because they were the exact words I had told myself over and over again a million times before .

He’s better off without you.

I straightened my back and looked over my shoulder, flipping my hair behind me. I smirked; refusing to let her see how much she had gotten to me.

I may have believed those words at one time, but I was learning that I wasn’t that girl who had walked out on the man who loved her because she was desperate to self-destruct. I was re-building myself. My pride. My self-respect.

So I didn’t believe that anymore. I wouldn’t allow myself to.

I didn’t know where that left Mitch and me, or if it even mattered at this point. But I wouldn’t let this woman look down her nose at me.

I didn’t cower to anyone. Ever.

“Then maybe you should keep a better leash on your boyfriend.” I turned and walked off, my nerves stretched thin and my knees starting to shake.

I wanted to collapse, but I didn’t.

Those days were over.

Watch out world, the new Gracie Cook was here to stay.

Just great.

I had left my camera at home.

Damn it, where was my notebook and super professional looking pen?

Clearly not in my bag.

I looked around the library parking lot, trying to locate my car. And then I realized it wasn’t here. I had dropped it off at Bo’s auto repair this morning to have the tires replaced after listening to one too many comments about my car’s general state of disrepair. Now I was going to be $800 poorer, but at least I was handling it on my own instead of calling someone to take care of it for me.

And that was Gracie Cook’s idea of success.

But now I was sans car and I had to be at the Blue Ridge Botanical Gardens in twenty minutes for my first interview as a full-fledged staff writer for Southern Gardens magazine.

I was off to a hell of a start it seemed.

“Ugh!” I growled under my breath.

“Uh oh. You’ve got that Gene Wilder in Young Frankenstein mad scientist look going on. That’s a sure sign of trouble. What did you forget at home this time?”