Chapter 5 Annabelle
P redawn light seeps beneath the curtain, bathing the room in honeyed whispers.
My heart skips against my ribs. I’ve slept under Lords Valley skies for the first time in years, and already dawn feels like a promise on the brink of blooming.
Somewhere out there, Derek’s Mustang thrums around the oval, its growl a steady heartbeat on the track.
I shouldn’t want him racing—and yet I’m grateful he’s practicing—chasing his own ghosts.
On the desk, my purse waits like a silent judge.
I finger the manila envelope—ordinary, innocent—though inside it hides the divorce papers that will set me free from the name Mike forced on me.
The one piece of paperwork he cared enough to file was a certified name-change form, erasing who I used to be and officially labeling me, Annabelle Bishop.
My chest tightens as I slit the flap and ease the paper free.
Ink glints on the dotted line, mocking me.
I lift the pen, its weight heavier than a stack of pie pans, and scrawl the name Mike chose across the divorce decree.
Each curve of the letters tastes like rebellion, like sugar over tart pastry.
After a steady breath, I flip the sheet. Beneath my name, I sign “Michael Bishop,” forging his signature the same way this sham of a marriage was sealed.
Every exit has its risks. But this is the only one that leads to real freedom.
“Today, I’m un-Mrs. Bishop.”
I fold the decree again, sealing my escape like a secret pastry box—sweet with danger, and finally, mine. Relief rises, and the air tastes like the first bite of a perfect apple pie.
I pause at the bedroom window. A robin hops on the sill, its rust-red breast vivid against the pale dawn. It tilts its head at me, small and fearless.
“Let’s make this happen”, I whisper, words soft but unshakeable. It’s time to set my own fate.
I stand and smooth my dress, steel settling in my spine as a low, familiar growl rumbles across the yard. I look out the window and see Derek’s Mustang rolling back from the track.
I stuff the manilla envelope in my purse.
At the bottom of the stairs, the clang of Derek’s garage calls out like a siren’s song. I go outside and step into the morning-lit shop, ready to choose who I’ll become.
The scent of hot engine oil and morning dew drifts off the tools. The earthy tang still feels like home.
Derek’s garage hums with country music. His presence hangs in the air—earthy, honest, dangerous. It’s in the walls, the tools, and in the worn floor.
Inside, it’s dim, warm, and alive. And there he is.
His long legs stretch from beneath the ’67 Mustang, sawdust on his boots and temptation in every line.
I grip the doorframe, breath hitching.
Then I see Derek’s black truck parked around the driveway’s bend.
God, I remember that truck. More specifically, I remember pressing my back against its cool hood, his hands sliding up my thighs, his mouth murmuring my name like worship.
That was before everything went to hell: before I left, before Mike.
A grunt pulls me back, the scrape of wheels on concrete as Derek rolls out from under his other pride and joy. I forget how to breathe.
He stands.
White tank smeared with grease. Muscles slick with sweat. Hair tousled, jaw bristling with stubble. His shirt clings in all the right places. If sin had a dress code, this would be it.
He wipes his hands on a rag, oblivious to the way he just melted my frontal lobe.
"See something you like, Miss Honeycrisp?" His voice is low, warm, soaked in promise.
I cross my arms, mostly to stop my hands from wandering. “I—thought you might want some coffee.”
It’s never just coffee. My heart hammers because I’m standing here like a woman who wants to fall into his arms when every reason I should run pulses louder. If I pull him close, I’ll drag him under too.
He catches my gaze. Dark. Knowing. Undressing me with his eyes.
“No coffee pot in sight, darling.” He steps closer. “Try that again.”
His grin is cocky, and his eyes flicker with hunger.
My chest tightens. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be looking at him like this. Every second I stay, I dig myself deeper into something I can’t have him involved in. Not with Mike hunting me; not with this town watching. But God, when he looks at me like that, I want to forget every reason to run.
My pulse stutters, my thighs squeeze, and my dignity curls up in the corner, whispering, You’re screwed.
“You know.” He stalks forward. “That dress is a hazard.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Is it now?”
“Yep. Every time I look at you in it, I risk wrecking more than my lap times.” His breath runs warm over my cheek.
A smile tugs at my mouth. “Then maybe you should look away.”
“I plan to look at you every chance I get, Honeycrisp.” He taps the tip of my nose, and I realize my frontal lobe is not the only organ in danger of melting.
I swallow hard, clear my throat and blurt, “I found the lawyer’s letter and your grandparents’ will.”
He shifts, and I glimpse the race calendar pinned to the wall—ed circles and scrawled practice times filling the dates. The race carries the weight of this farm. And Derek carries the weight of it all.
He says nothing, just watches and waits.
So I ask the question that’s been burning in my chest. “What are you going to do about the note?”
His smile blooms slow, dangerous, and gorgeous. “Easy fix: you marry me, and I get every dollar in the trust.”
My heart stutters.
I whisper, “And the hard one?”
“Win the next race.”
“Derek— You can’t?—”
“Then marry me.”
“I can’t!” The words tear out of me, raw and desperate. I want to so badly, but I can’t. And I don’t want him to race. I’d die if anything happened to him.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, not sure who I’m apologizing to.
I turn away, tears burning my eyes. He steps in front of me, lifting my chin with one finger. My hand tries to flee, but his grip tightens on my wrist. His thumb strokes my pulse, and suddenly, I’m aflame.
“I’m racing,” he says.
“You can’t.”
“I’m good,” he insists. “I’ve won before, and I can win again. With a small loan, we won’t need the will.”
“It’s not your driving I fear,” I choke out. “It’s what happens if you get hurt.”
“Same goes for you, Honeycrisp. I don’t like seeing you hurt.” His voice softens. “What happened in San Francisco?”
I look away.
He brushes circles on my wrist. “What has you so scared that you can’t look at me?”
My voice trembles. “My landlord. I’ve got to fix things before?—”
“Before you let yourself feel again? Before you let me in?” He trails his finger down my arm. “I want to help.”
As his words settle under my ribs, I shove him away with the most cowardly question I can muster. “Why do you blame yourself for Sarah’s death?”
His hand stills, and his face darkens.
“When you’re ready to share your demons, I’ll share mine. But don’t hide behind my mistakes.”
It lands hard. It lands right. God, I want to lean into him—meet that challenge head-on. Instead, I step back, forcing the tension to bleed out of my veins.
Across the yard, an old, beat-up pickup rattles over the gravel—its faded side-panel logo still reading Boone Mechanical Rodeo . I blink. That’s Marty Boone’s truck…and Caroline Gnatz behind the wheel.
Derek steps out of the garage beside me, wiping grease from his palms on a rag, eyes narrowing in surprise.
“Is that…”
I stare.
She kills the ignition and eases out, her sensible flats dusted with farm dirt, her belly rounded and unmistakable.
My mouth drops open.
Derek chuckles. “She changed her corvette back in LA for a VIP stroller.”
Caroline cradles a steaming stainless-steel bowl of apple pie. The woman who almost ruined my brother’s life strides across the grass, cheeks flushed with gossip and morning sun.
“Surprise!” she chirps, lifting the bowl between us. “Thought I’d be one of the first to welcome Annabelle home. Low-sugar, butter-substitute recipe—house specialty.”
I blink at Derek, then at Caroline. “You moved home?”
“Came back from LA last spring,” she says, jiggling the bowl so crust fragments tumble over the rim. “Opened mine-and-yours Law Firm—Gnatz & Thor.”
“Thor? You named your law firm after a mechanical bull?”
“It’s strong and I’m unbeatable.” She rubs a large circle over her belly. “And since this little one’s daddy is the best mechanical bull operator in town, it fits.”
I can’t hide the shock on my face, nor can I close my mouth.
“Caroline, you’re…expecting?”
She laughs, warmth easing my shoulders. “You didn’t think this was all apple pie, did you? Due any day. Baby Boone’s almost ready to make his debut.”
Marty? Marty Boone, the town’s mechanical bull operator, knocked up Caroline Gnatz, the high-powered attorney? My mind spins.
Derek removes the pie bowl from Caroline’s hands. “Why don’t you join us in the backyard? I’ll grab some lemonade.”
We stroll toward the weathered picnic table under the blooming apple tree. Sunlight flickers through the leaves as Derek nods at me.
“She’s been making amends with Emma and Eric,” he whispers.
I glance between them, mouthing. “Caroline?”
How long have I been gone?
I sit at the table across from her.
Derek sets the pie bowl down and brings out lemonade. The crust’s golden, steam curling like ribbon.
“You made that?” I ask.
“Of course. Low sugar, low fat, high heart.” Caroline waggles an eyebrow at my skepticism. “Eat up. You’re too skinny, and you look like you could use some home cooking.”
Too skinny? From Caroline? And who in the world puts an apple pie in a stainless-steel bowl?
Derek nods to the pie, eyes affectionate. “She’s trying to atone for her Wild West days of blackmailing your brother.”
Caroline lets out a sigh. “I was a bitch, okay? It took me too long to realize Eric and I weren’t meant to be and that Marty was my man. So, I’m on good terms now. I’m the new Caroline Gnatz 2.0, soon to be Boone.”
She flashes the huge diamond ring on her hand, and I choke out a surprising, but heartfelt, “Congratulations.”