23
F ebruary turns to March. I get my cast off, leaving my arm pale and withered.
The snow melts and the first buds of spring unfurl on the apple trees.
I go into my twenty-fifth week. My baby’s now the size of a head of lettuce and he–or–she rolls around in there like a tumbleweed.
I restock The Corner Store with cinnamon rolls and fill notebooks with new recipes.
I work on Ruby’s cake, but it’s still not perfect.
I call the insurance company, ask about my claim. They’re still working on it. I call Aiden’s work. Every Monday, he’s there at the agency. With that comes relief. He gave up, he let me go.
It seems too good to be true.
But I’ll take it.
For a long time, it felt like I couldn’t wake up. But with no sign of Aiden, I feel like I’m slowly easing into life. A better life that could be mine if I only let it.
One Friday after my shift at The Corner Store, I stroll down Main Street, a box of bread loaves in my arms for our local food bank, Beartooth Cupboards. The baby kicks and the box against my belly bounces as I head inside.
“Hi.” The woman at the front desk slides a sign-in sheet toward me.
In return, I slide the box of bread onto the counter. “Hi. This is for you. Donation.”
“Need a receipt?” the woman asks, giving me a head-to-toe scan.
“Nope,” I say, shifting away from her eyes on my belly. Soon, I won’t be able to hide it.
I exit the food bank and stop to glance at the store next door. Resurrection Real Estate. I look up, following the red arrows and lettering that reads APARTMENTS FOR RENT .
When I was a kid, I always loved the old brick buildings on the main drag in Resurrection. I always pictured brick walls, wooden floors, and old gas lanterns, even though I know now what a terrible fire hazard it would be.
I give my stomach a rub like it’s a good luck charm and enter the office, where I schedule an appointment for a showing at the end of next week.
The sky’s a crisp blue as I walk back toward The Corner Store, a bounce in my step as I pass the biker bar next to the lingerie store.
I’m only ten minutes away, but I can feel Davis worrying.
Watching. My body can’t shake his eyes. It can’t shake a lot of things.
Like, the fact we’re sneaking around like old times.
There’s no naming what we are, no expectations or commitments, just sex on the sly.
Permanently wrinkled bed sheets.
Stone-cold secrecy.
We’re beating the heat we had that summer.
A heightened awareness lingers between us, our hands and lips magnetized for each other.
Every time he buries his face in my hair and growls, a delicious ache forms in the pit of my stomach.
It’s like instead of backing away from whatever’s between us, we jumped in head first. Unleashed it.
What that is, I wish I knew.
It’s a wonderful feeling to have him back in my life, but also so terrible because it will end. I’ve loved him for so long, but I have bigger life problems than to tell him how I feel.
Especially right now.
This will end when the baby comes, if not before that, and I have to be okay with it.
Before I cross the sidewalk, my gaze flicks across the street to the Little Prairie Market.
Beneath its minimalistic sign, a cheery red strip of metal with silver cursive proclaims, Farm and Famliy Focused .
With its white shutters, shiny red facade, and garage style doors, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen in my town.
It’s beautiful.
I bite my lip, guilt and curiosity crawling through my veins. Do I dare?
Yes, I dare.
I narrow my eyes and cross the street, hustling past the town terror, a ferocious-looking Pitbull named Hungry Hank. I want to see this store Fallon’s been complaining about, but first, I reach for my phone in my back pocket and fire off a text to Davis.
Me: Wanna get frisky?
Davis: Dakota.
I smile at the stern message. My heart thumps as I watch those three bubbles appear, disappear. Falling back into our bantering texts feels right.
Davis: What do you have in mind? Should I bring handcuffs?
I giggle.
Me: Well, it does involve nudity.
Me: I need new bras.
Davis: What?
Me: I want to check out the new market. You’re my bodyguard, right? C’mon, Hotshot. Move those boots for my boobs.
Me: Can you come?
Davis: For you, always.
Davis: Be there in five.
Mission accomplished, I pocket my phone and head inside the store.
“I’m a traitor,” I hiss to Davis, skirting the aisles like I’m hiding from a sniper. “Fallon will kill me.”
He chuckles as his dark eyes rove the store. David Bowie drifts over the speakers, giving it a kind of eclectic cowboy cool. “I have to admit, it’s impressive.”
Impressive is an understatement. Little Prairie Market is everything Resurrection needs. Charming. Innovative. Accessible. And a bigger supermarket chain means no more driving to Billings or Bozeman to stock up—everything is local.
They’re not the devil Fallon painted them out to be, but they’re not doing The Corner Store any favors.
“How can we compete?” I ask Davis. “Dad can keep the store open and bleed money if he wants…but Fallon…she’s wasting away there.”
A thoughtful look crosses his face, and his hand moves to the small of my back. “Maybe you don’t compete?”
I arch a brow. “That’s…helpful?”
He grins and grabs a cart.
I give a cursory glance around. Under the bright lights of the market, it feels hard to hide. From Resurrection. From my stomach.
There’s a handful of people with baskets strolling past a mural of Billy the Kid painted on a crisp white wall. I marvel at the displays of fresh-caught seafood. As I meander through the aisles, Davis behind me, my brain turns his words over and over. Maybe you don’t compete.
Maybe we don’t.
Maybe we change.
The Little Prairie Market has everything we don’t. But we have a restaurant, and the one thing the town doesn’t have—a bakery.
I gasp when I turn the corner and find myself in the home goods section.
More specifically, the baby aisle. Cans of powdered formula, funky wooden rattles, and organic baby food surround me. I find myself pausing, taking in the tiny onesies and plush blankets.
“Holy shit, they do have bras,” I say, lunging for a rack with greedy hands. I unzip my jacket, then push on my chest, my cleavage in upheaval. I moan at the relief. “They’re huge now.”
Davis’s face reddens. “Jesus Christ, Dakota.” His voice is anguished.
I hide a smirk at this big cowboy coming undone. Davis’s appreciation for my breasts knows no bounds. With a flirty smile, I lean into his chest and purr, “But you already know that, don’t you?”
Eyes turning dark and feral, his hand slides to squeeze the curve of my ass.
I drop a bra into the cart.
“I’m going to check out the baking supplies.” I swat at him when he makes a move to follow me. “Stay here. Guard the bras,” I say, enjoying the look of panic on his face.
The last thing we need is the entire town gossiping about us. Even if I can’t get the thought of two earth shattering orgasms from this morning out of my head.
He rolls his eyes, but stands near the aisle endcap, arms crossed, looking like some overprotective bodyguard on baby aisle duty.
Briefly, I let my eyes linger on the sexy sight, then head for the dairy aisle.
“Oh my God,” I say on a breathy sigh.
It’s better than anything I’ve ever seen in my life.
Coolers stocked with the most decadent essentials of ingredients.
French grass-fed butter flaked with sea salt. Crème fraiche. Organic eggs. A hopeful giddiness rises inside of me. I’m already envisioning Ruby’s birthday cake. A carrot cake as tall as the Rocky Mountains. As sweet as the girl I’ve come to know.
“Never thought I’d see it,” a raspy voice says from behind me. I turn, stifling a groan. Sheena Wolfington slinks around a display of soup cans, looking like she’s been lying in wait. “ Goodbye Girl on aisle three.”
I take a step back from Sheena and yank my jacket shut. But I’m too late. Her wolfish eyes lock on my stomach. “Don’t you have better things to do than lurk in dairy aisles, Sheena?” I ask, squaring my shoulders.
Best friends in grade school, bitter rivals in high school. We fought over head cheerleader, prom queen, and Sam Bailey. I came out on top. But from the delighted look on Sheena’s face, not anymore.
“How’s that big fancy job of yours?” Sheena sneers, waving her blood-red nails in the air.
Her black hair, once a long tumble of curls, is cut into a shaggy bob, and she has too much makeup on her angular face.
She’s a forever buckle bunny chasing cowboys, getting her entire personality from a rattlesnake.
Humiliation flames over my cheeks. “I’m home. You can probably figure that out for yourself.”
“Restaurant didn’t work out, huh?” Sheena’s lip curls. “And now the golden girl’s back. Knocked up. Without a man. Never thought I’d see the day.”
She gives me a long, satisfied look and I flinch.
My heart twists and I cover my belly protectively. My baby doesn’t deserve this.
She makes a sour face. “Thought you’d do things differently, didn’t you? Thought you were so great, and now, look who’s come crawling back.”
“You’re in the big leagues of petty, Sheena,” I say, feeling sad and exhausted. I glance at the end of the aisle, and Davis is nowhere to be seen. Great. Now I have to extricate myself from Sheena’s claws.
“Get on the bench, baby.” Sheena advances. “Everyone’s talking.”
A flicker of the old Dakota McGraw rises in me. A memory surfaces of me knocking her on her ass in eighth grade for calling Fallon “trailer park pretty.” You can take the girl out of Montana, but you can’t take Montana out of the girl.
Head high, Koty. Rope that fucking moon.
I lift my chin, ball a fist. “I’d rather be talked about than be the miserable bitch doing the talking.”
“But talking’s fun. So, who’s the father, Dakota? We’re all curious.”
The question stops me cold.