Chapter 17 Annabelle
I see him first through the rain-streaked window—soaked, standing on the back porch like he’s been out there for hours just trying to breathe. When I open the RV door, he looks up.
Then he’s running.
I step into the wet grass, feet bare, heart racing. He meets me halfway and takes my face in his hands like he’s terrified I’ll disappear again.
“I thought you were gone,” he breathes. “I thought you ran.”
He kisses me, rough and grounding. His mouth is a confession lit on fire. His hands are cold, his lips warmer. I grab the hem of his soaked flannel and hold on as the rain slicks down his skin, the storm muttering in the background, fading, but not gone.
He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze. “You left something inside.”
I catch my breath, heart thudding as he digs into his pocket. My pulse skitters as the pink diamond apple blossom ring catches the soft light from the RV.
Derek gently places my ring into my palm. I hesitate, throat tight. “Give it back when it’s real,” I whisper. “Once the annulment is official.”
“All right,” he says.
I lean into him, whispering against his chest, “I don’t want to run anymore. Not from you.”
He pulls me into one of those strong, all-encompassing hugs that smell like motor oil and home, burying his face in my neck.
“I’m sorry I left. I promised to take care of you. When I said those vows, I meant them. I should’ve stood beside you when it got hard, not driven off like a damn coward. I will never abandon you like that again. Not ever.”
Tears sting my eyes. “I’m sorry too. I should’ve told you everything sooner. I was scared—of what you’d think, of what it would do to us.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “We’re in this together, Annabelle. All of it. The good, the hard, the absolutely fucked. I’m not going anywhere.”
I follow him inside the RV like it’s the only place in the world that can hold what’s between us.
My heart’s pounding, and the past is breathing down my neck.
The air inside smells like dust and memory.
The couch is still lumpy. The little lamp still flickers when you turn the knob just right.
My breath catches in my throat as it all floods back. It’s different with him here. Warmer.
He turns to face me, his eyes unreadable.
“This is where it happened,” he says. “That night, I knew I could never let you go.”
I nod slowly.
He stares at me for a long moment. Then takes two strides and pulls me into his arms.
The kiss is hard and hungry, but beneath it is something else—grief, forgiveness, love. He lifts me effortlessly, carrying me to the same fold-out bed where he took my virginity all those years ago.
This time is different. But it’s also the same. Because it still means everything.
“I don’t care who asks,” he says against my mouth. “You’re my wife. If that divorce didn’t go through, we’ll fix it. I’ll marry you again—a thousand times over if I have to. Bishop can burn in hell.”
He kisses me again, like he’s sealing his words into a heated promise. Slow. Sure. Intentional. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and exactly what it’ll do to me.
I pull away. “What about your grandfather’s trust? Your land?”
“I’ll figure it out. We have more important things to do now.” He tugs at the robe tie, a wicked and hungry smile lifting his lips.
He strips me with reverence, peeling away armor I didn’t realize I was still wearing.
“You’re a goddamn masterpiece,” he murmurs, kneeling between my legs, eyes burning. “Every part of you.”
He leans in and kisses my stomach, my hip, then lower, his breath ghosting over the center of me, hot and humid.
Then his tongue touches down, and everything else disappears.
My back arches.
His hands anchor my thighs wide, his grip firm but unhurried. Like he’s calibrating an engine, tuned to my exact frequency, learning every sound I make. Every gasp. Every cry.
He licks me slowly at first, deep and deliberate, building pressure. Testing tension. His tongue drags over my clit in long, lazy strokes, his mouth so skilled, I forget how to breathe.
“Oh my God ,” I whisper, fisting the blanket underneath me, head falling back. “Derek?—”
“Right here,” he rumbles against me. “I’ve got you.”
And he does.
He latches on, tongue circling, then flicking, his stubble scraping with just enough grit to keep me grounded. When he slides two fingers inside me, curling them just right, I shatter with a cry that echoes off the walls.
But he doesn’t stop.
He eases me through it, licking up every last tremor, like he’s savoring me—greedy and worshipful, all at once. By the time he rises over me, his lips glisten and his eyes are dark with need.
“You always did—taste like sin,” he growls.
My skin is flushed and sticky, but I want more.
I reach for him, dragging my nails up his shirt and down his chest, over the ridges of muscle and the old scar by his ribs. His cock brushes my thigh—hard, thick, ready—and I wrap my hand around him.
He shudders.
“Careful, sweetheart.” He’s panting now. “I’m running hot.”
“Then pour some coolant in me,” I whisper, tugging him closer, peeling the shirt from his body. “Before I overheat.”
He groans, grabs my wrists, and pins them to the mattress just above my head.
And just like that, I’m stripped down, tuned up, and chasing the finish line.
His body presses into mine, every line, every plane of him sparking against every inch of me.
He nudges into my entrance, slow and thick and perfect.
The stretch steals my breath.
When he finally sinks all the way in, it’s not just physical—it’s visceral. Like a piston locking into place. Like a system rebooting after a long, long time.
“Oh fuck, ” I gasp, clenching around him.
“That’s it.” His voice is pure grit. “Nice and tight. Like you were made for me.”
And then we move.
He starts slow and deep, grinding strokes that send sparks through my spine. He rolls his hips with mechanical precision, each thrust a calculated rhythm. He kisses me as he moves, licking into my mouth like he can’t get close enough.
He lets one hand trail between us, cupping my breast, kneading gently before rolling my nipple between his fingers. I whimper, arching into him, and he thrusts harder, deeper, finding that perfect angle that has me clawing at his back.
The mattress creaks. The windows fog. The air inside the RV turns electric.
“Fucking love how you sound,” he growls, biting softly at my jaw. “Like a V8 engine purring just for me.”
“Don’t stop,” I beg. “Please—don’t ever stop.”
“I’m about to blow a gasket.”
I can’t hold on much longer.
He shifts, hitching one of my legs higher over his hip, and the new angle sends me spiraling. I break with a cry, squeezing around him so hard, he curses and buries himself deep, holding still as we both quake.
We shatter together.
It’s not gentle.
It’s not perfect.
It’s raw.
Real.
And absolutely ours.
Afterward, we collapse into each other, slick with sweat, tangled in limbs and breath and memory. As his hand strokes along my spine, I curl my fingers into the hair at his neck.
Outside, the stars burn cold and bright in the sky.
But in here?
It’s warm.
It’s home.
I lie tangled in his arms, my breath slowing, skin still flushed from everything we just shared. The warmth of him anchors me. The scent of sweat, rain, and us clings to the sheets, wrapping around me like a promise. But my mind won’t rest.
Even though his heartbeat is steady against my back, mine is racing.
I think of the night I left San Francisco—the weight of the duffle bag digging into my shoulder, the way I’d flinched at every sound in the alley, terrified Mike was behind me.
The motel clerk with pity in her eyes when she handed me a room key and turned the TV up loud enough to drown out my sobbing.
I think of the forged papers I printed in a dusty little library three towns over, hands shaking so badly I could barely hit "confirm" on the form.
I remember staring at the signature line, knowing it was wrong. Knowing I was stealing a future I hadn’t earned yet. But I signed anyway.
Because I was already half in love with the memory of Derek and clinging to the idea that, one day, I could find him again.
And now, somehow, I have.
His hand tightens around my waist in his sleep, and I press mine over his in a vow. I’m not letting go this time. But wanting something and keeping it are two different things.
Because love doesn’t erase the past. It doesn’t fix the mess I created. It doesn’t make the forged documents disappear. Mike is still out there, circling like a buzzard. And if I know anything about him, he’s not done. Not even close.
I shift slightly, just enough to see Derek’s face in the dim light—so peaceful, so utterly unaware of how close we still are to losing all of this.
If the wrong person finds out, if the sheriff digs deeper, if Caroline’s hands are tied.
.. This marriage could be torn apart in a courtroom before I even get the chance to truly be his.
I can’t go back to who I was. I won’t survive it.
So I promise myself, right here in this quiet, that I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll face the hearings. I’ll testify. I’ll rip my secrets into the light if I have to.
Because this? Him? Us?
It’s real.
And for the first time in my life, I want to fight for something instead of run.
A soft gust of wind brushes against the window, rattling the RV just enough to remind me that we’re not invincible. That even in the glow of safety, the storm hasn’t truly passed.
I kiss the back of Derek’s hand, breathing him in like it might be the last time.
Then I close my eyes.
And I pray the morning doesn’t take this peace away.
But peace never lasts, not even in sleep.
Sometime in the dead of night, my mind drags me under.
In the dream, I’m running barefoot through the orchard. The rows are endless. The trees are skeletal and dry, their blossoms replaced with blackened fruit that crumbles when I brush past them. I call for Derek, but my voice is swallowed by the wind. No one answers.
Then I see him—just ahead.
He’s facing away, standing still, hands at his sides. Waiting.
I sprint toward him, calling his name again, louder this time. Desperate.
But he doesn’t move.
When I reach him, I understand why.
He’s holding the marriage license in one hand. My signature is smeared, dripping with blood. The paper burns at the edges, curling inward.
Mike’s laughter echoes from the trees.
Derek turns slowly.
His eyes are empty. Blank. Like he doesn’t see me at all.
“You lied,” he says.
I try to explain, to scream.
But my voice is gone. I’m voiceless again. Trapped.
A hand clamps over my mouth from behind.
The orchard melts into flames.
The apple trees scream.
I jolt awake with a gasp, heart slamming against my ribs.
The RV is quiet. Derek’s still beside me, breathing slow and even. But my pulse won’t settle. My body remembers the dream too well.
I press my forehead to his shoulder, anchoring myself to the steady rhythm of his breath.
The next time I wake, sunlight slants through the RV window in warm, lazy stripes. I’m tangled in Derek’s arms.
My legs ache in the best way. My chest feels lighter than it has in weeks.
For a moment, I let myself pretend everything’s normal. That we’re just two people in love, lying in the bed where it all began.
The past behind us.
The future wide open.
But the second I shift, I feel the weight return.
Because it’s not over.
And we both know it.
Derek stirs behind me, arms tightening instinctively. “You’re not sneaking out on me, are you?” he mumbles into my hair.
I turn to face him. “Never again.”
His eyes open slowly. Soft. Guarded. “We good?”
I nod. “Are you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he cups my cheek, his thumb brushing the edge of my jaw. “We’ll figure it out.”
“You said something last night,” I murmur. “That you’d marry me a thousand times over.”
He brushes my hair off my face and kisses my forehead. “And I meant every damn one.”
“What happened at the track yesterday?” I ask.
“I disconnected some wires in Mike’s car. I was hoping it would make him leave.”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure that will make him leave. Honestly, I don’t know what will make him leave.”
“He’ll leave,” he says. “I’ll make sure he does.”
We lie there for a few more minutes, wrapped in the hush of morning, listening to the world wake around us. From the house comes the muffled sound of Bear and Kara barking.
After the required puppy kisses and a few belly rubs on the patio, we finally make our way into the house to shower and change. The soft squeal of puppies filters in from the laundry room, and we check in on the newborns too.
Downstairs, my legs are still wobbly, and Derek doesn’t even try to hide his smug grin when I lean on the counter for support.
“I regret nothing,” he says, stepping around me to grab coffee.
“You cracked the bed support again.”
He shrugs like it’s a badge of honor. “It was already cracked.”
“From last time,” I mutter, failing miserably to smother a grin. “Now it’s completely broken. Guess we can’t do that again.”
“We still have the table,” he says with a devilish glint.
I shoot him a look. “Oh, I remember the table.”
“Good,” he murmurs, nipping at my neck. “You’ll be back on it before the end of the week.”
I roll my eyes, but my cheeks are already flushed. “You really do think with your dipstick, don’t you?”
He chuckles, all sin and satisfaction, and I swear, if I didn’t have twenty pies to box up, he’d have me right back on the counter.
“Guilty,” he says, brushing past me to grab a roll of twine from the drawer. “But hey, at least I check my fluids regularly.”
I shake my head, laughing under my breath as I finish packing up the last crate of pies. But even through the laughter, I feel the weight pressing back in around the edges. Behind the teasing, there’s something else—something quieter. Something neither of us has said out loud since last night.
We’re okay right now.
But that man —the one with my name still technically on his paperwork—he’s still out there. And even if my heart belongs to Derek, even if this house and this life feel like home… We both know peace doesn’t last forever.
Not when Mike Bishop’s breathing the same air.
Derek loads the last of the pies into the truck and looks at me over the bed rail.
“You ready?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah. Let’s go and be normal for a day.”
He gives me a crooked smile. “You and me, Honeycrisp? We’ve never done normal.”
And he’s right.