Chapter 11 Annabelle #2
It’s fast this time. Frantic. Filthy.
Hands grip. Teeth graze. Skin slaps skin. The mirror fogs behind me as we chase that sharp, breathless edge of surrender together. His hands roam, greedy and grounding. Mine clutch at his back, the muscles beneath flexing like a machine fine-tuned to wreck me. And God, I want to be wrecked.
But even here, caught in the chaos, it’s more than lust.
It’s us.
It’s trust.
It’s the wild, aching truth that I’ve finally been found.
When I fall apart, it’s not gentle. It’s shattering. My name is a sob on his lips as he follows, both of us clinging to something we can’t name, but refuse to ever let go.
Sometime later, we collapse into bed again, breathless, boneless, and tangled in sheets that now smell like flour and sin.
We didn’t just say vows—we lived them, sweat-slick and sugar-sticky, in the small hours of morning.
The last thing I remember is the steady thump of Derek’s heart against my back and his hand curved protectively over my belly.
Morning arrives too quickly, and sunlight spills across the floor in golden streaks, warming the worn wood beneath our bare feet.
The smell of browned butter and cinnamon rises from the oven, curling through the house.
Derek whistles off-key as he wipes his hands on a tea towel, and I chase him around the kitchen with a flour-dusted spoon, both of us sticky with pie filling and smug happiness as we box pies.
He wipes batter off my chest with the corner of his shirt. I pretend to scold him. He pretends to behave.
The kitchen is a wreck. Bowls everywhere, countertops dusted in sugar and dough, and a trail of apple peels leading to the sink. But our laughter echoes louder than the mess.
It feels like home.
By mid-morning, the pies are boxed, the last one cooling on the windowsill as Derek loads the truck bed with practiced ease.
We pack up tea towels, crates, and signage, my nerves buzzing louder than the cicadas outside.
I used to bake in silence. Now, the kitchen hums with music I never knew I needed—his laughter, our footsteps, the rhythm of something real.
As I slide into the passenger seat, he leans across and buckles me in like it’s second nature.
The road into town winds through apple groves and fields already blooming with festival colors.
And for a moment, with the windows down and Derek’s hand resting warm on my knee, it almost feels like a dream too sweet to last.
In town, the air buzzes with May Day anticipation.
Tents snap in the breeze. Kids dart between booths.
Derek never lets go of me, not even once, as we set up my pie table beneath the striped red-and-white canopy.
He smooths the tablecloth. Tightens the canvas.
Kisses the top of my head like it’s routine.
“Not your full bakery yet,” Derek murmurs, scanning the setup with a crooked smile, “but it’s got your magic all over it.”
I nod, heart full.
A shadow falls across the booth, and I glance up to see Misty and Blake approaching, each holding an iced lemonade. Misty’s already waving.
“Look at you,” she beams, eyeing the stacked boxes. “You’re officially a businesswoman now.”
Blake leans on the edge of the stand. “Smells like sin and sugar over here.”
“That’s the brand,” I say, winking. “Temptation baked fresh.”
Misty takes a sip, then leans in closer, her voice dropping. “Hey, weird question. Some guy came into Town Hall yesterday asking about available properties in Lords Valley. Said his name was Rick. Tall, dark hair, real polished, but… Something about him gave me the creeps.”
My breath stills. Of course Mike’s brother’s here.
Misty catches the shift in my expression. Her smile falters. “You okay?”
I nod, but it’s slow. Heavy. “That must be Mike’s twin, Rick.”
“Seriously?” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice low and firm. “Your other half-brother from hell. He’s as bad as Mike. Avoid him as much as Mike.”
Misty stiffens, her grip tightening on her coffee. “Noted. Any more half-sibling spawns I should know about?”
I laugh, but it’s tight. “At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if they start crawling out of the cornfields.”
Before either of us can say more, Blake holds up his phone to Derek, drawing our attention.
“You’re not gonna like this.”
“It’s official. Mike Bishop’s on the race roster. Signed up as Midnight Racer.”
Derek’s jaw clenches. “Perfect. Midnight Loser is about to get his ass whooped.”
“What about the restraining order?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just closes the message and mutters, “I want to race him. I win on Day One, and he’s gone by Day Two.”
But this isn’t about the race. Not anymore. I can see it in the tight set of Derek’s jaw, in the way his fingers curl at his sides.
Mike isn’t here to compete.
He’s here to provoke.
“You shouldn’t do it,” I say, voice small. “We’re married now. You’re getting the money.”
He shakes his head, jaw tight. “There’s too much riding on this. I can’t back out now. Maybe I gave him new tires. But I didn’t give him a new engine.”
He tries to smirk. Tries to make it a joke. “If that Chevy’s still held together with duct tape and delusion, he won’t last a lap.”
But I hear it in his voice.
He’s not sure.
And neither am I.
What if Mike has another car?
What if Derek crashes? What if this is how I lose everything?
Because Mike is unpredictable. And Derek? He’s stubborn enough to get himself killed for pride.
Back home, we resume the baking. One oven is definitely not enough to fulfill all the orders I’m expecting, but we push through. Derek jokes about using a torque wrench on pie dough. I laugh. But it’s tight.
The kitchen fills with heat and sugar, and this rising, choking sense that time is running out.
Tomorrow, the market will be filled with music and flowers. Tomorrow, I’ll smile for customers and pass out slices of apple joy. But the day after? The race could take everything.
And if Mike doesn't crash, my marriage just might.
I’m almost all right until my phone dings with a forwarded message from Caroline.
I sneak off when he’s boxing pastries, duck into the pantry, and open the email.
“We received a third-party inquiry related to Case #549-39761. Divorce documents have been provisionally reviewed. Status: Pending Validation. You may be contacted by a court officer. Do not respond until advised.”
My stomach drops.
Another message dings.
Caroline: Mike has filed a contestation.
I can’t breathe.
Fuck.