Chapter 14 Derek
B y the time we make it back from the woods to the town square, Eric’s got one arm around Emma and the other balancing a carrier with the squawkiest newborn I’ve ever heard.
Kid’s lungs are Olympic-grade, and his glare?
Already mastered. Eric packs them in his grandfather’s truck, Suzy, and they drive away.
“I think the baby flipped me off,” I mutter, rubbing a phantom ache from my shoulder.
“He did.” Annabelle’s still laughing as she brushes off her skirt. “With surgical precision.”
A familiar giggle cuts through the music. Annabelle’s mom’s laughing at something Blake said as she balances baby Albert on her hip. They’re giving Eric and Emma time to settle in with the baby.
Annabelle slips free from my hand for just a second, hurrying toward her family like gravity pulled her home.
Her dad hugs her tightly. Her mom presses a kiss to her temple. Baby Albert gurgles something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
And I just stand there, watching this woman I love hold everything she once thought she lost.
Last light filters through the treetops.
The scent of kettle corn and cinnamon swirls through the square as we pass vendors closing shop.
Kids dart between booths, face paint smeared, dragging oversized prizes behind them on string leashes.
A bluegrass band strums from the barn ahead, luring couples toward the open doors where strings of lights hang like stardust. The race is an hour away.
Everything feels…good.
Whole.
“I still can’t believe you delivered him,” I say, catching her hand in mine. “You’re like a nurse-midwife-superhero hybrid. Apple pies optional.”
She shrugs, eyes a little shinier than usual. “It was messy. Beautiful. And terrifying. But I’m glad I was there. I’ve missed too much already.”
She stops at her pie booth, or what’s left of it. A few crumbs and empty pie plates scattered like confetti. Her hand smooths a crooked tablecloth, but I can tell she’s not really looking at it.
“And now I’m an aunt again,” she adds, voice dipping just a little. “I forgot how good that feels. And soon, you’re going to be a grandpa.”
“Careful,” I chuckle, brushing her knuckles. “Keep saying that, and I’ll show up to the nursery in suspenders and orthopedic shoes.”
She laughs softly, that kind of full-bodied sound that makes everything in me lean closer. “He’s got Eric’s chin,” she says, “but Emma’s don’t-you-dare glare.”
“Kid’s gonna be unstoppable.”
We pause in the middle of the square. She leans into me. Her fingers lace through mine. The sunset paints her hair with firelight, and something inside me goes very, very still.
This woman. This moment.
If I could bottle it, I would.
But underneath all that warmth, there’s a flicker in her eyes, something tugging just below the surface.
“Hey,” I murmur, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You okay?”
She doesn’t answer right away.
So I do what I always do when her walls start creeping up. I pull her into my arms. Right there, in front of God and half the town.
She wraps around me like she’s trying to memorize the shape of safety.
“It’ll be over soon,” I promise, my lips near her temple. “No more Bishop. No more loopholes.”
I mean every word, and I’ll make damn sure this woman never has to look over her shoulder again.
I’ve spent years bracing for the rug to get yanked out, always waiting for something to break. But this—her in my arms, the world soft around us—this feels like solid ground.
I will win, and the Bishops will fucking vanish from town.
Night falls, slow and sweet. Music filters out from the square, soft strings giving way to acoustic guitars and lazy dancing.
Misty’s secure in my son’s arms, and Annabelle in mine.
We move together under the fairy lights like we’ve got all the time in the world.
Her head rests against my chest, her fingers tangled in mine.
“You smell like cinnamon and trouble,” I murmur.
“Sounds like your type.”
I twirl her once, then pull her close again. “You’re my whole damn type.”
We’re laughing. Drunk on joy and belonging. We dance slowly, her arms around my neck, my hands on her waist, and for a minute—just one—I let myself believe this is how it ends.
Not in fire or in fists. But in softness and peace.
We sway beneath the fairy lights strung between old orchard posts, the world shrinking to the feel of her in my arms and the scent of apple blossoms on the breeze. Kids dart between legs with caramel apples. Laughter spills into the sky.
“I could get used to this,” she murmurs.
“Me too,” I say, spinning her gently before pulling her back into my arms. “Me too.” I pause, letting the words settle. “Hell, I already have. Married to the love of my life? I’m the luckiest bastard in this barn.”
That’s when I feel it.
She goes still. Just a breath, just a beat, but it’s there. Like her body forgot how to move.
Her head stays on my chest, but her hand grips a little tighter at my back. Then, softer than before?—
“Derek, there’s something I need to tell you,” she says quietly, like it’s costing her to get the words out. “About Mike. About... Something I should’ve told you sooner.”
I freeze. Not because I don’t want to hear it, but because the look in her eyes terrifies me. It’s not fear. It’s guilt.
I tilt my head, about to ask what she means, when a gust of wind cuts through the square, sharp enough to knock over a stack of programs and snap one of the festival banners clean off the cider tent frame.
Sheriff Simon stumbles back with one hand clutching the flapping fabric and the other holding a mug of cider like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
“Shit,” I mutter, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. “I’ll handle it. Don’t go falling for any square dancers while I’m gone.”
Her lips twitch like she wants to stop me. But she doesn’t.
And that might be the part that haunts me later.
I make sure Blake and Misty are close by before I leave. Misty’s already chatting with Annabelle, one hand on her belly, the other cradling a lemonade. Blake meets my eyes and nods once, like he knows.
“Stay with her,” I say under my breath.
“Always,” he answers.
The lights around the square flicker on as I finish tying off the banner, casting long shadows across the tents and booths. The storm’s still holding off, but lightning cracks somewhere in the hills, too close for comfort.
I glance back toward the barn. Annabelle’s silhouette is blurred behind hanging lights, her laugh faint under the hum of music. She’s safe. At least, for now.
I make my way down the gravel path behind the cider tent and past the last row of vendor trailers until the fair thins into open space. The crowd noise fades to distant murmurs. The pits are quiet. Just the occasional clink of metal, a few racers tuning up, and the thrum of anticipation.
The stars are gone, swallowed by clouds, and lightning cracks in the distance. There’s talk of a storm tomorrow, maybe enough to delay the final race.
My Mustang’s parked near the edge, tucked under a canvas awning that flaps like a restless ghost. I crouch beside the front end, checking the tire pressure, the suspension. The sabotage I rigged on Bishop’s car will hold. It’s just enough to screw his timing but not kill him. Because I’m not him.
I pop the Mustang’s hood to double-check the timing belt and plugs. Everything looks good, clean, responsive, and ready to run like hell.
Gravel crunching underneath boots echoes behind me.
I don’t even have to look, but I turn around.
“You always did like to play mechanic,” Mike says behind me, his voice slick with condescension. “Too bad you have crappy equipment and you’re shit at fixing people.”
I straighten slowly, my fist still wrapped around a socket wrench. “And you’re still in town, testing my patience.”
He steps into my peripheral vision, that same smug grin plastered across his face like a permanent scar. “Relax, Waters. I’m not here to throw punches. Not yet.”
“Then get to the point,” I mutter. “You’ve got thirty seconds before I rearrange your face.”
He grins wider. “You’re pissed. I’d be too. I mean, what kind of woman doesn’t tell her new husband she already has one?”
The world narrows.
I blink once. Twice.
“What?”
“She married me first. San Francisco courthouse. Papers. Rings. The whole damn fairytale. Hate to break it to you, Waters, but your pie princess? She’s still my wife.”
My breath punches out in one hard exhale. “You’re lying.”
He shrugs. “Check the records. Our pretty Belle must be good in bed, faking playing house.”
He’s lying. He must be. My grip tightens on the wrench. Every part of me wants to plant him into the dirt, crack his jaw, rip that smirk off his face with blood and bone. But I don’t.
“Why now?” I manage, voice low. “Why say this now?”
He steps back, spreading his arms. “Because I want you to race angry. I want you to fuck up. And when you do, I’ll collect the money, and I’ll be right there to remind her who she really belongs to.”
I breathe through my teeth. One slow inhale. One razor-sharp exhale.
I toss the wrench back into the toolbox and walk away.
Because if I don’t, I’ll kill him.
And I’ve got a fucking race to win.
I head back toward the square, boots pounding like thunder against the gravel. The music’s louder now, banjos and guitars in harmony with the crowd’s buzz. But it all sounds wrong. Muted. Distant.
When I reach the edge of the barn, I see her.
Annabelle. Smiling at Misty. Laughing with Blake.
Like nothing’s broken.
Like she didn’t just tear me in half.
I stay in the shadows for a second too long, watching her hand brush Misty’s arm, her smile flash soft and easy like she’s not carrying the weight of a secret that just detonated my entire fucking life.
The betrayal is a cold knife twisting deep.
And still. I want her safe.
Blake spots me first. “Hey, you're up next. They're calling racers.”
“Stay with her,” I say tightly. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”