Chapter 12 Derek
T he sun rises on May Day like it knows what’s coming. It’s the kind of morning where everything smells like possibility… And maybe, smoke, if you’re not paying attention.
By the time I grab the last crate of pies, Annabelle’s already halfway into the truck.
She’s all nerves and determination, dressed in cuffed jeans and a red flannel tied at the waist like some retro pin-up ready for war.
Her braid’s a little messy. Her cheeks are flushed from the early start.
And when I slide the crate beside her, her mouth quirks up in a way that makes me forget how to breathe.
She’s beautiful.
And she’s my wife.
“Booth’s already half-built,” she says, tugging on her seatbelt as I climb in. “Emma said I’ve got a spot near the music tent. High traffic. Prime pie real estate.”
“You planning to seduce the town with sugar?” I ask, turning the key.
Her grin is all cinnamon and trouble. “Only the married men.”
She’s teasing, but all I can think about is what’s riding on today. The race prize money isn’t just for bragging rights. It’s the last payment on her bakery. If I lose, I don’t just lose to Mike. I risk everything I’ve built with her.
I snort. “You’ll have a line wrapped around the whole damn valley.”
The ride into town is quiet, but good. Comfortable.
The way it should be. I find her hand on the center console, our fingers lacing like they’ve done it a hundred times.
She rests her head back against the seat, eyes fluttering closed for just a second.
She’s tired. She’s wired. She’s so full of hope, it scares the hell out of me.
We hit the edge of town before the first booths are even up, but instead of heading toward the square, I make a turn down Main.
She blinks and sits up straighter. “Wrong way.”
“Nope,” I say, squeezing her hand. “Small detour. Trust me.”
Her brow furrows, but she doesn’t fight it. Just watches me with that storm-meets-sunrise gaze that’s always leveled me.
We pull up beside the old stone storefront beside Valley’s Delights.
It’s early, the street still drowsy with morning shadows, though lights already glow from the bakery where Mrs. Kensington’s kneading the dough.
To the right, the old insurance building has been transformed with pale pink paint I rolled on yesterday.
The windows sparkle. The door’s been scrubbed clean of its former tenant’s decal, and above it, a wooden sign sways gently in the breeze:
Honeycrisp Pies.
Annabelle goes still.
“Derek…”
I park, kill the engine, then step out and circle around, tugging her door open.
“C’mon,” I say, holding out a hand. “I want you to see it properly.”
She’s blinking fast, eyes glistening and hands fluttering like she’s not sure where to put them. Her eyes sweep the painted trim, the fresh flowers in the planter boxes, the sign overhead.
“What is this?”
I grin and offer my hand. “Wedding gift.”
She stares at me like I’ve handed her the moon.
“You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did.”
She follows me to the front, and I swear, her whole body vibrates with disbelief. The key in my pocket feels heavier than usual. Maybe, because it holds more than access. It holds her future.
I unlock the door and push it open. Inside, the space smells like fresh paint and second chances. Shelves line the back wall. Fridges hum softly in the corner. Everything’s ready.
It’s waiting for her.
“I’ve got good news and bad news,” I say, leaning against the fridge inside.
Her eyes are huge. “Bad first.”
“You’re gonna have to bake a hell of a lot more pies after this weekend.”
She blinks.
“Good news?”
I smile. “You own a bakery now.”
Her hands fly to her mouth. “Derek.”
“I closed the deal yesterday. Everything’s stocked. Signed over. Your name’s going on that window next week.”
She walks in a daze, fingertips skimming the countertop. “You did this for me?”
I step in behind her, voice low. “I did this for us.”
This isn’t just a gift. It’s a vow. Wrapped in paperwork and pink paint.
“This is my dream,” she breathes and turns around.
“And now it’s your address.”
She throws herself into my arms. I catch her easily, lifting her off her feet, her laugh vibrating between disbelief and joy. She buries her face in my shoulder. I press a kiss into her hair and breathe her in—cinnamon, sugar, and fierce resolve.
Then she pulls back just enough to look me in the eye. “What about the orchard? How are you pulling this off?”
“I’m winning the race,” I say simply. “And now that we’re married, the trust opens. Between that and the purse money, we’re covered.”
She stiffens in my arms just as the front door creaks open.
“Well damn.” Blake’s voice is all slow grin and lazy timing. “If this ain’t the prettiest opening act of the day.”
He strolls in holding a takeout tray with two lemonades. Misty’s right behind him, ponytail messy, freckles bright, that usual mischievous glint in her eye as she hands Annabelle a drink.
“About time this place got some real talent,” Blake says.
Misty points to the new sign above the entrance. “Love it. Honeycrisp Pies. ”
Annabelle blushes. “Me too.”
Misty wraps her into a quick, tight hug. “Congratulations. Seriously.”
Blake nudges me with his elbow and shows me his phone screen. “Race roster just updated. You’re gonna want to see this.”
I scan the list. My stomach drops when my eyes catch another name. “Richard Bishop?”
The name punches through me like ice water. Misty’s smile fades. Annabelle goes rigid.
“Bishop?” I repeat, voice sharp.
“That’s Rick,” Annabelle whispers. “Mike’s brother.”
I blink. “He has a fucking brother?”
She nods slowly. Heavily. And something shifts inside me.
Rick. The guy from the track. The one I gave pointers to last week. The one with the souped-up engine and the sleek blue ride. The one who asked suspiciously specific questions about my gearing ratios like he had a stake in beating me.
Son of a bitch.
Blake nods. “Rick Bishop signed up for the second heat. That means Mike’s racing you in the first, and if Rick qualifies in the second, he’ll face you in the finals.”
“They’re working together,” I mutter.
My blood starts to hum.
This isn’t just a coincidence. This is a strategy.
“They’re not here for the race,” I say, voice hard. “They’re here for us.”
Annabelle grips my hand. Misty stares at the floor. Even Blake’s smirk is gone.
The air shifts. The kind of shift you get right before the sky cracks open, until Blake tilts his head toward the festival grounds.
Annabelle draws a breath. Squeezes my hand. Straightens her shoulders like a woman going to war.
“Yeah,” she says. “Let’s go set up.”
We climb into the truck, and I catch her looking up one last time at the sign above the bakery door— Honeycrisp Pies —her name in spirit if not yet in script.
By the time we reach the town square, the place is already buzzing. Kids in flower crowns dart between booths. Women in cowboy boots and sundresses laugh under banners strung from trees. Maypoles stand like sentinels, waiting for their ribbons.
The first event won’t start until sundown, but prep is in full chaos mode—tables clatter, tent flaps snap, and teenagers are chasing each other with buckets of confetti like it's a contact sport.
I help Annabelle unload, setting up her booth with a kind of pride that hits deeper than anything I’ve felt before.
There’s a handmade sign— Fields Orchard Pies —fresh linen tablecloths, and little smudged price tags with tiny apples in the corners.
She drew them last night between laughing messes and soft kisses.
She was glowing this morning. But now?
There’s a flicker in her eyes. A tightness to her smile. Like she’s waiting for something.
Or someone.
I want to ask—but I don’t. Not yet.
She’s so damn excited. So full of light. I want to keep that brightness untouched for as long as I can.
But I know better.
I know Mike.
And if he shows tonight, it won’t be for pie.
By mid-afternoon, I’ve already walked the perimeter of the square three times. Checked the race lane on Valley’s Ridge twice. Nothing. No sign of Mike.
Not even a glimpse of the red Chevy.
I returned the truck this morning, handed the keys off to the sheriff like I’d promised. But there’s still no smug grin, no lurking presence.
And that’s what makes me suspicious as hell.
It’s always the quiet ones. The ones who wait until your guard slips before they strike. And Mike Bishop? He’s the kind of bastard who sharpens his knives while smiling across the table.
I cut back through the market and find Eric behind the fire station’s booth, loading water coolers into the truck.
“You seen him?”
Eric shakes his head. “Not since he slinked around the mayor’s office. Misty says he’s laying low.”
“Too low.” My jaw tightens. “Can you stay close to the square tonight? I don’t want him anywhere near Annabelle.”
Even Eric looks uneasy. That tension, coiled and crawling, isn’t just mine.
“I’ll stick to her like glue.”
“Where’s Blake?”
“Setting up the sound system at the fairgrounds. He’s watching for movement.”
Good. But the knot in my chest doesn't budge.
After checking her booth again, I slip behind the cider tent and cut through to Pete’s garage where the car’s waiting. The Mustang gleams under the overhead lights. I double-check everything, then set up a small security cam near the rear axle—just in case.
I’ve already done the work: double muffler installed, engine bored out, ECU tuned past legal limits, nitrous wired under the seat, weight shaved so she practically floats.
She purrs like sin and bites like hell.
She’s ready.
I just hope I am.
I make one final loop through the alley and emerge into the square just as the mayor steps onto the makeshift stage in front of Town Hall. He’s wearing that ridiculous blue sash, gripping a paper that flutters like it might take off on its own.
A hush rolls across the crowd. The sun hovers at the horizon, bleeding gold over the rooftops, lighting up the trees like a match.