Delia’s at the counter when I come in. As I click on the Open sign and raise the blinds, she starts in on me. “Must be nice, not to care what people think.”
I don’t like the barb I hear in her voice, but I take the bait. “What do you mean?”
She waves her hand at the windows in disgust. “That display out there,” she explains, as if I don’t know what she’s talking about. “He’s just marking his territory, you know that, right? Look what I’m getting and you’re not. That’ll get around, you know. That’s got to get back to—”
I cut her off before she can say McBane’s name. “I don’t care.” I nod at an elderly couple who come in from the street, regular customers who always stop by for a cup of coffee first thing in the morning. Did they see that kiss? I wonder. The way they avoid looking at me a
