Chapter 2 Xaden #7
We drink in silence until I clear my throat. “Listen. I owe you an apology. For what I said the other day, assuming you and Cole—”
He smiles faintly. “Cole told me you always thought I had it bad for him.”
“Didn’t you?”
“No.” His voice is steady. “He’s like an annoying little brother. Same age, but you know what I mean. I love him, sure. Just not like that.”
“Still. I was out of line.”
“I appreciate that.” Then he shrugs. “I’ve got my heart set on someone else. But he refuses to give me his number.”
My eyebrow lifts. “Did you tell him you were a quarterback in high school?”
Caspian laughs. He pulls out his phone and shows me a grainy Instagram shot. He zooms in on a guy with dark curls, a tray of wine glasses, glaring at the camera like Murder, She Wrote personified.
“That’s him,” he says, almost sheepishly.
“He looks like a firecracker.”
“Exactly,” he sighs, besotted.
I shake my head. “Look at us. Bonding over shakes and boy problems. Cole would be so proud.”
The air shifts. Caspian studies me, serious now. He drains the last of his shake. Then, only half-joking, he says: “If you hurt Cole again, I’m telling Ann-Sabrina Fenton you have a huge crush on her, but are too shy to admit it.”
I nod, appreciating his concern for Cole. Then I salute with the empty shaker. “You’re more dangerous than you look.”
“I get that a lot.”
I eye him. “You realize if you actually told her that, she’d have me in a velvet cape before the day was out. Probably crowned Shadow Daddy Fae Lord of the Misty Meadows, eternal ruler of glitter and doom.”
Caspian snorts. “And you’d go along with it, too, because no one says no to Ann-Sabrina.”
I sigh. “Yes. That’s what terrifies me the most.”
COLE
It’s the annual Pie Pie Baywood charity event and the entire town square smells like cinnamon, cream cheese frosting and confusion.
Because no one really knows what we’re raising money for. A small stage has been set up near the gazebo, draped in what looks like repurposed prom decorations.
Behind it, a banner reads:
PIE PIE BAYWOOD: FOR THE CHILDREN, OR POSSIBLY THE LIbrARY ROOF
Officially, Pie Pie Baywood is a community bake sale and creative expression showcase. Unofficially, it’s just another day of Baywood chaos, only with more sugar.
I linger near a folding table selling peanut butter pie in Tupperware that predates me.
Noah’s skipping in short bursts between bake stands, his face already streaked with chocolate.
Mom is volunteering at the peach pie booth together with Caspian’s mom, and the pair is trying to out-Chanel one another.
When I went over to say hi, Mom took one look at me and asked, in genuine desperation: “Oh darling, what do you have against mirrors?”
The creative expression showcase, which is just a fancier way to say ‘open mic’ begins promptly at 3:07. Steve Pell is hosting.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, holding the mic upside down. “We’re kicking things off with a dramatic reading from Ann-Sabrina Fenton.”
Ann-Sabrina glides onstage in velvet and combat boots. She opens a dog-eared paperback and reads an excerpt from A Court of Mist and Fury like it’s Shakespeare.
At the first mention of ‘undulating hips’, Harold, in what can only be described as an "accidental-on-purpose" move, knocks the book from her hands, and Steve swiftly takes the microphone back.
Scowling, Ann-Sabrina steps down from the stage to a round of polite applause and one overenthusiastic cheer from a boy who immediately pretends it wasn’t him.
Next up is Steve himself, doing stand-up.
“What do you call a pie that tells dad jokes?” he asks, already laughing. “A pun-kin pie.”
The crowd reacts like they’ve just been force-fed cold gravy. Steve continues, undeterred. “What do you call a pie that ghosts you after one date?” He pauses dramatically, and then — doubling down with laughter — snorts into the mic: “A disap-pie-rance!”
People stare. A toddler starts crying.
“Don’t worry, Steve!” Earl shouts encouragingly from the audience. “Maija says not everyone is gifted with humor!”
Eliot turns to me and mutters, “You know, in the 1930s, an entire town vanished after a bake-off turned violent.”
“I believe you,” I whisper.
Then Becky hops onstage with sheer determination, shouting into the mic: “Baywood Child Genius Club applications are now open! Ages 6 to 12. Parental consent is not required if your child is very convincing!”
Harold takes the mic from her. “I’m very tired,” he announces for some reason. “Please know that.”
Somewhere in the back, Henry is calmly photographing the event like a war correspondent. He’s juggling an old Polaroid and a vintage film camera like they’re extensions of his hands.
Noah’s babbling about all the pies he’s tasted, when Henry notices us. “You exist beautifully in backlighting,” he says.
I blink. “I didn’t know that was a thing.”
Henry just smiles and lifts the Polaroid. “Hold Noah’s hand again. Just for a second.” Soon, the Polaroid spits out the photo. Henry shakes it gently and hands it to Noah.
“To remember this day,” he says with a soft smile.
Noah beams at him, holding the still-developing photo like it’s treasure. “Thank you, Mr. Henry!”
Then he turns to me. “I’m gonna show grandma!” And off he runs.
“You’re good with kids,” J?rgen says in his deep voice, carrying what looks like half a blueberry pie in a foil tin. He’s flushed like he’s been hauling tables. His wife, Linda, is a few steps away chatting with Ann-Sabrina.
Henry glances over, one brow raised. “I’m good with light,” he corrects. “Kids just happen to move through it.”
J?rgen chuckles, the kind of laugh that rumbles out of him before he can stop it. “That sounds philosophical.”
“In that case, call me Sokrates,” Henry says, adjusting the strap of his camera. His tone is dry, but his eyes linger on J?rgen a moment longer than necessary. J?rgen… blushes? No, it must be the light. The famous light Henry keeps talking about.
Linda calls J?rgen’s name then, startling him. He mutters a quick, “See you around” before retreating.
Henry lifts his camera and snaps a photo of the pie table, though I’d bet my Volvo he wasn’t looking at the pie.
That’s when I notice Xaden crossing the square. He’s in one of his black t-shirts and jeans, looking like a commercial for something breathtaking.
He scans the crowd, finds me, and starts walking over. There aren’t many people in the world who walk like Xaden Bailey.
I mean, the man can walk.
And people notice. Heads turn as he passes, like they can’t help it. It grates. He’s not some sideshow for Baywood to gawk at.
He’s mine .
I mean, was.
Someone’s getting a bit territorial.
“Pie Pie Baywood,” he says when he reaches me. “That’s new.”
I almost panic when I feel the all-too-familiar blush spreading from my neck to my ears, but somehow, I get through it.
“It’s a cry for help,” I joke, and he snorts. I hand him a mini key lime pie in a cup. “Eat this. It’s practically a fruit.”
He raises an eyebrow, but takes it. Our fingers brush, and it sends a jolt up my arm. Ridiculous. But his eyes darken, and I know he felt it too.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. I don’t know about him, but my thoughts at the moment aren’t very… pure.
Then I remember I actually have something to tell him.
The results of my Sherlock Holmes era.
“Could you come over tonight? Maybe after Noah’s gone to bed. I want to talk to you about something,” I say. Xaden looks at me, surprised, a bit wary even, and nods.
I just have to talk to Dad first.
A part of me dreads it. But this time, I won’t let him make excuses.
XADEN
Frankie pops the cap off a soda with one hand and leans back in his loyal folding chair, looking pensive.
We’ve been talking about Willard’s petty little power games when he suddenly says, “I just remembered something. It was that sedan that really set Eli off back then.”
I glance up from the mess of papers spread across the workbench. “What sedan?”
“That black sedan. The one Willard had towed here. Six, maybe seven years ago.” He squints, then snaps his fingers.
“Lexus. Front all smashed in, like it kissed a concrete wall. Willard told Eli it was gonna be a ‘quiet fix-up.’ No insurance paperwork. Paid in cash. Wouldn’t say who was driving, just muttered something about a deer and bad luck. ”
My stomach drops. I already know.
I know even before Frankie adds, “It belonged to someone with money.”
I lean back, heart hammering. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just a deer and bad luck. But deep down I know better.
This isn’t just a crack in Willard’s armor. It is a hole, and I’d be a fool not to pry it open.
I need to talk to Andrew Hudson.
COLE
Preschool PTA meetings are always a circus, but tonight it feels like a special edition with too many bonus scenes. Without Baywood Beans’ carrot cake, I’d already have bolted.
Becky’s armed with clipboards, highlighters, and her undefeated ability to assign vexing tasks to everyone in sight.
Normally I’d fade into the background, chewing on baked goods and avoiding eye contact with Becky.
But tonight she’s brought Henry, who’s sitting next to me, adjusting his camera lens while she breathlessly explains that “Baywood’s youngest learners deserve official documentation.
” Meaning: flattering action shots of her mid-speech.
Henry doesn’t argue. He rarely does. He just lifts the camera and starts clicking.
“Don’t forget you’re capturing history,” Becky whispers.
“Like the moon landing?” Henry asks, bone-dry.
Becky beams, completely missing it. Michael, Luca’s dad, sits across from Becky, suit jacket still on, looking like he was born in a boardroom. They’re already circling each other.
“I think the bake sale proceeds should go directly into the Child Genius Club,” Becky says sweetly. “After all, we’re investing in the brightest young minds.”