Chapter 10 Derek
I t’s too early for anything but bad news. My phone buzzes across the kitchen counter. I snatch the mug of coffee, burn my tongue, and answer anyway.
“Morning,” I say, doing my best to sound awake. I’m not.
“We need to talk,” Misty says, clipped and sharp. Like she’s been pacing since dawn. “It’s about Mike.”
Of course it is.
Because nothing pairs with black coffee like a shot of dread.
I grip the mug tighter. “What happened?”
“He showed up at Town Hall this morning. With Sheriff Simon.” She’s rustling papers on her end. “Filed a formal complaint. Says you slashed his Chevy’s tires.”
A bitter laugh escapes before I can stop it. “He's right about the tires—I slashed the ones on that stolen piece of crap he calls a Chevy. But tell Simon to check the VIN number. I took a photo yesterday, and I'll bet my farm the car's hot. Mike’s playing dirty, and we’ve got proof.”
“Derek.” Her sigh lands like a punch, heavy and disappointed. “I know you’re trying to protect Annabelle. And me. But he’s Huntz’s son. That complaint isn’t just petty, it’s strategic. He’s laying the groundwork.”
I scrub a hand down my face. She’s right. She’s always right when it counts.
“I’ll handle it.”
“You better. Because the more reckless you get, the more ammo he has.”
Her voice softens. “How are you holding up?”
“Like someone dropped a wrench in my chest and forgot to pull it out.”
She chuckles, but it’s weak. “I threw up four times this morning. Blake’s trying to boil ginger like it’s some ancient sorcery. He tells me I’m beautiful while I’m heaving over the toilet.”
“That’s love,” I murmur. A smile ghosts across my lips. “He learned from the best.”
“You raised a good one.” Then quieter: “Be careful, okay?”
“You too.”
The call ends, but the unease doesn’t.
I stare out the window into the still morning. The mama dog has collapsed into a donut of regret, her pups climbing her like a jungle gym. One’s chewing her ear. One’s kicking her gut. Another’s tangled in a dish towel like a worm in a sleeping bag.
We’ve been calling the small one Trouble. Annabelle swears he’s a pie thief in training, destined for chaos. Yesterday, he toppled a box of braided apple bread and licked the glaze like it was his birthright.
Annabelle laughed. She wanted more counter space. She always talks about needing more room, more pies, more trays, but she doesn’t say why . Not out loud.
But I know.
She dreams about a bakery.
And I want to give it to her.
The quiet shifts, and I know she’s coming before I see her. Bare feet whisper across the hardwood, and then she’s there, in my shirt, her hair tangled with sleep, and eyes still soft with dreams.
She stops in the doorway like a vision I don’t deserve.
“Hey,” she says, voice still husky.
That one word hits like a prayer.
I pour her coffee. Splash of cream, no sugar—because I know. I always know.
“Sleep okay?” I ask.
“Until my personal furnace decided to disappear,” she mutters, curling her fingers around the mug.
I step closer, cage her softly between me and the counter. My bare chest brushes her arm. “Furnace, huh? You complaining?”
She smirks. “You’re very warm. Also, you sweat like a linebacker.”
“Want me to demonstrate how well I sweat again?” My hand slides under the hem of my shirt, fingers grazing the backs of her thighs.
Her breath catches. “For science?”
“Control group. You, me, this kitchen. Only variable is your total lack of pants.”
She laughs, and it sinks into my bones like sunlight.
“You’re such a nerd.”
“I’m your nerd.”
I kiss her slowly, deliberately—because I can. Because she lets me. Because through some goddamn miracle, this woman is mine.
Her fingers trail up my chest, stopping at the edge of my jaw. “That you are.”
We stand like that for a moment, wrapped in morning stillness and the scent of cinnamon and coffee and rain-washed spring air. I could kiss her right here on the kitchen floor and not come up for air until lunchtime.
But Kara barks once—sharp—and Bear lets out a low whine at the door.
Annabelle groans. “Saved by the fur brigade.”
She peels herself off me, and opens the back door, letting the dogs inside. Morning breeze slips through the screen door, bringing with it the scent of wet grass and new earth.
“You might want pants,” I call after her, as she runs upstairs. “Just a suggestion. For public decency. Or my sanity.”
Moments later, she reappears in jeans, hair in a messy knot, and cheeks flushed.
She leans against the counter beside me, mug in hand, while I start cracking eggs. It’s too easy, how we fall into rhythm. How we move around each other like we’ve been doing it for years, instead of days.
And that scares the hell out of me.
Because borrowed moments like this? They never last.
They’re too soft. Too golden.
And I was raised to survive storms, not bask in sunshine.
She crosses the kitchen to grab plates, moving fast, like she knows I’m watching her. Lately, she’s been slipping past me like that. With a flash of a smile, and a laugh that doesn’t quite land. Like she’s trying to keep the parts of her that hurt just out of reach.
I should press. Should ask what shadows she’s still hiding.
But every time I open my mouth, the words die on my tongue. So instead, I hammer fence posts. Fix cars. Pretend I can wrench her fear into something I understand.
We plate the eggs on toast, the smell of butter and rosemary filling the kitchen. And then I ask her what’s been clawing at me since she fell asleep curled into my chest.
“You ever think about what it’ll be like—our marriage, I mean?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just lowers her eyes and draws slow circles in her scrambled eggs with her fork.
I wait. Because this matters.
“I do,” she says finally, her voice soft and hesitant. “And when it happens… I hope it’s a surprise. A beautiful one. Because I know you’ll make it that way.”
Jesus.
She has no idea what that kind of trust does to a man like me.
I reach for her hand and thread our fingers together. “I don’t want you to be scared of it, Honeycrisp. I want us to be the start of everything good.”
Her eyes lift to mine. Honest. Open. “I’m not afraid. And I want that too.”
It’s the kind of moment you’d bottle, if you could. Safe. Warm. Full of promise.
Until it’s shattered.
A low engine rumbles up the drive. I move to the window.
Tow truck and Sheriff Simon’s cruiser.
And sitting beside him?
Mike fucking Bishop.
The warmth bleeds from my chest, replaced by something cold. Sharp. Unforgiving.
I squeeze Annabelle’s hand. A silent promise: You’re mine. He doesn’t get to touch this life we’ve built.
“Stay inside,” I say, voice like steel on steel.
She grabs my arm. “Derek?—”
I kiss her forehead. “I got this. Please. Don’t come out until I get you.”
She nods, barely, then disappears up the stairs with Bear close behind, his big body crowding the stairwell like he knows he’s on guard duty now.
Outside, Mike’s car swings from the tow hook like a bruised ego on display. Simon looks like he’s regretting his life choices. Mike looks like he’s already picked a fight and lost it, but he’s back for round two.
I step onto the porch.
“Fields,” Simon says. “Complaint of vandalism.”
Mike waves a crumpled paper like a man holding a match to gasoline. “And a search warrant.”
I snatch the document, scan it, and let out a snort. “You misspelled the town name. There’s no apostrophe in Lords Valley. This isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on.”
Simon takes a look. “Not official.”
Mike shrugs, all fake innocence. “Still slashed my tires.”
I cross my arms. “Your car’s been sitting at the Motor Inn since Tuesday. George can vouch.”
“I’m not a guest. Place is full. I’m sleeping in my car.”
Simon’s eyes narrow. “That’s against town code.”
“And there’s a restraining order in place,” I say. “He’s not even supposed to be on my goddamn property.”
Mike blinks, then recovers. He steps closer, invading space he doesn’t deserve. His breath reeks of smoke and something sour.
“I know you slashed them. Replace the tires, or I start talking. About Huntz. About her.” He nods toward the house. “Think your little nurse is peeking through the curtains? Wonder if she misses the way I touched her.”
My vision whites out.
I move.
Not a punch. Not yet. But I step into his space so hard he has no choice but to backpedal.
“Try me,” I say, low and lethal.
Simon raises both hands. “Enough. Mike, go to Anderson’s. Derek, pay for it. Next time, I press charges. On both of you.”
“I’ll fix it myself,” I bite out.
Simon blinks. “You sure?”
“Positive.” I meet Mike’s gaze, let the heat bleed from my voice until all that’s left is steel. “Got the tools. Got the time. Lords Valley’s a peaceful town. I’d sure as hell like to keep it that way.”
Mike smirks, but something flickers in his eyes. He knows he lost ground today.
Simon frowns. “I can run it to Anderson’s.”
“No need,” I say, gaze fixed on Mike. “I’ve got fresh tires in the garage. No point making two trips to Mill Creek.”
Simon gives a tight nod and delivers one last round of pointed warnings, restraining order, civility, and small-town decency. Then the cruiser and tow truck rumble down the road, leaving Mike’s wreck of a car sulking on my gravel.
I open the door and immediately spot my missing wrench, tossed behind the seat.
That son of a bitch.
When I step onto the porch, Annabelle’s already there, arms wrapped around herself, Bear practically glued to her leg. She watches me like I hung the damn moon.
“Did you slash his tires?” she asks, one brow lifted.
I grin. “Yup.”
She smiles, fierce and radiant, like I just handed her justice in a bow. “Good.”
I climb the steps and rub my hands up and down her arms, grounding both of us. “You okay?”
She hesitates. “I need to tell you something. It’s not about the bruises. It’s about Mike.”
There’s fear in her voice, not fear of me, but fear for me. And that tears something in my chest.