15. Winnie
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
winnie
The thing about pie contests is nobody really wins unless it gets a little messy.
And although I didn’t sleep much last night, I showed up today because Weston treats this day like a holiday.
Folks dust off their grandma’s “secret” recipes, call that one aunt who swears she makes the best crust in the county, and splurge on the good butter like it’s a special occasion. Because it is.
The whole main drag is closed off. There’s a band playing on a pop-up stage. The whole town is here. I’m balancing a paper plate with two slices of pie I absolutely don’t need when someone bumps my shoulder.
“Oh! I’m so sorry—” we both say at the same time.
She blinks at me, then her face lights up. “You’re Winnie Hawthorne, right?”
I shift the plate before I drop it. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”
She sticks out her hand, all business and dark red lipstick. “Melissa. From the Weston Rodeo Committee.”
Oh. Oh no.
I brace for another reminder of her rejecting our bakery.
Instead, she winces. “I actually wanted to speak with you and apologize for our phone call.”
I just stare at her. “Apologize?”
“We had no idea you and Dutton Stetson were an item,” she says quickly. “And he means a great deal to our rodeo community. Truly. We would’ve handled that very differently if we had known.”
My brain trips over that. Right. We’re an item. A fake item.
She keeps going. “We’d love to have Hawthorne Bakery at the rest of our events this season. We’ve got a prime booth spot right up front. High traffic. Best location.”
For a second I forget that I should say something.
“That—really?” I manage.
“Absolutely. Please accept my apology. And tell Dutton how much we appreciate him.”
I nod, still stunned. “I will. Thank you. Really.”
She gives my arm a squeeze and disappears back into the crowd.
A month ago I was begging for a spot and getting brushed off like I was nothing. Now they’re offering front-and-center because I’m… what? With Danger?
This is what comes with him. The name. The history. Being tied to someone with power.
That booth could change everything for my parents.
But accepting it feels like borrowing someone else’s name to save my own family. And I’m not sure if that makes me grateful or ashamed.
Mama comes up behind me. “You’re the reason we won best crust, you know that, right?” The words are barely out before she’s close enough to grab my shoulders.
“And who do you think taught me, Mama?”
She pinches my cheek like I’m five. “Like mother, like daughter,” she says, which is code for I taught you something right, even if you’re a mess.
I grin and say, “Always.”
She holds my face for a second longer, her thumb tracing under my eye. “Are you sure you’ve been doing okay? You’ve hardly been home, and I’m worried you’re not getting enough sleep.”
I look down at her hands. Her knuckles are rough from so many years at the bakery.
“I’m fine. Really starting to like my new jobs.”
She shoots me The Look. The one that says you can’t lie to me. “Winnie, you better not be picking up these extra shifts for the bakery.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not just that, Mama. I’m twenty-three. I need to start thinking about moving out soon. I’m lucky you and Daddy let me stay during college, but I need to start helping out more. I want to have my own home. Take over the bakery when you retire. Not that you ever will.”
She rubs my arms like she’s trying to warm them up. “Well, you’ve always been such a wonderful daughter. You have lots of time to figure your life out, to work your days away. I’d at least relax tonight and enjoy that eye candy over there.” She nods, none too subtly, at the Stetson brothers.
“Mama, stop,” I say.
She grins, sly. “I’m just saying. That’s what these events are for. You should at least share a piece of pie with someone.” She gives my cheek another pat then scoots back to her spot at the table, where Daddy is tragically singing a song too loud.
They pack up their car, and Mama gives me the secret “go, shoo” motion behind Daddy’s back. I watch her load up the Tupperware, wondering if I’ll ever be as sturdy as she is.
Sawyer appears at my elbow out of nowhere. She’s got on a cut-up band tee and cute jeans that I'm sure she bedazzled herself.
“You know your family is super adorable, right?” she says.
“They’re pretty great.”
She licks pie filling off one of the forks and says, “Well, now that all the children and parents are packing up, you better come on. The real party is starting now.” She throws away her fork and loops her arm through mine then steers me, weaving past coolers and discarded lawn chairs.
On the way to the band, she stops to fill two red Solo cups with something from a pitcher at a pop-up table. The liquid is crimson and reeks of rubbing alcohol and Jolly Ranchers.
“Drink up. Tonight you’re not serving, you just get to relax.” Sawyer says with a smile.
I take a sip. It’s disgusting, but cold. “I think my tongue is going numb,” I say.
She clinks her cup against mine. “That’s how you know it’s working.” She pulls me to the edge of the crowd, where the music is so loud it hurts. The band is playing “Sweet Home Alabama.”
She leans in. “So, are you gonna tell me the scoop on you and Danger, or am I gonna have to drag it outta you? Because I will, you know.”
I have a feeling she’s not lying.
“If I knew, I’d tell you.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Sure, okay. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Like he wants to eat you for dessert. The whole town can see it.”
I laugh, too loud. “Sawyer, I honestly have no clue what’s going on. He doesn’t exactly talk about feelings.”
Sawyer’s face does a thing, like she wants to be snarky but also wants to be honest. “Yeah, I’ve been there,” she says, draining half her cup. “You’re in the Stetson Fog.”
“The what?”
She grins. “Stetson Fog. They all have these battles they’re fighting—with the Kennedys, with themselves, with their own weird honor code. You get pulled in, and you can’t navigate where you’re going until bam! You’re in love and in the middle of a shootout.”
“That sounds terrifying.”
She shrugs. “You’d survive. Danger would never let anything happen to you. I’m rooting for you guys. I hope he gets his happy ending, but I really hope you get yours.”
“I think it might just be something casual. Not even a big deal, really.”
I said it out loud, but for some reason I don’t like the way it sounds.
“Uh huh, that’s what I thought too. Stetson Fog,” she says, pointing her drink at me.
I laugh. “Whatever you say. I’m gonna hit the bathroom before I pee myself.”
“Don’t fall in,” Sawyer calls after me.
I weave through the crowd, the noise level doubling every ten feet. The line for the Porta-Potties is brutal. I’m halfway there when I hear the voice.
“It’s you.”
I turn, and Rylee is glaring at me over the rim of her cup. Her makeup and hair is perfect, even in this heat.
“And it’s you,” I say.
She just stares, the silence going a little too long."You know I don't quit when I want something,” she says.
“What is it that you want, Rylee?”
She steps closer. “Danger will always be mine. He’s using you to get back at me.” She looks me up and down. “He’d never actually be into someone like you. And you know what I heard? I heard he hasn’t slept with anyone since me. Not even you. If you’re his girlfriend, that’s a little sad, isn’t it?”
I’m thinking of a dozen ways to say fuck you, but I let her continue.
“I haven’t even seen you two kiss. I have a feeling that he knows he wants me back just as much as I want him. I came all this way for him and I’m not leaving without him.”
The words should slide off, but instead they stick. Maybe because I’ve wondered the same thing. Maybe because I don’t know what Danger wants, and I don’t know what I want, either.
But more than that, I see rage. I see every mean and hateful thing she’s ever said to me, and I have no control over what I’m about to do next.
I tip back the rest of my drink, toss the cup into the trash can beside us, and say, “You know what, Rylee? That reminds me. I need to go love on my man. I’m so sorry we've been so considerate anytime you’ve been around. It won't happen again.”
She doesn’t say anything, just watches me like she doesn’t believe I’m about to do anything. I can’t believe it either.
One second I’m standing there with Rylee’s voice still buzzing in my skull, and the next I’m marching across the field like I’ve got something to prove.
Maybe I do. To her, to myself.
People are dancing. Laughter rises. Someone is singing in the distance.
All I hear is her.
I’ve never even seen you kiss.
Fine.
Danger’s kicked back in one of those folding camp chairs, one long leg propped on the cooler, beer in hand. Hat turned backward. Relaxed, camo t-shirt clinging to his chest. God, I hate that he looks good in everything.
He looks up when my shadow falls over him, eyes narrowing slightly when he sees my face.
“Winnie?”
I step right up to him. "I'm going to kiss you."
His brows lift.
"And if you laugh," I warn quietly, "I'll kill you."
I wait for that infuriating smirk to spread across his face, or the smart-ass comment that's undoubtedly coming. But neither happens.
The men around him go quiet. I don’t think they heard what I said but they know it’s serious. His body goes still, his stupidly perfect muscles lock tight under his shirt as he sets his beer on the cooler. Slow. Careful. Like he knows this matters.
"Y'all mind?" He speaks to them, but his eyes stay on me. "Give us a minute."
Chairs scrape. Boots shuffle against dirt. Someone whispers something under their breath, but I don’t catch it—or maybe I just don’t care.
I don’t look.
I can’t.
Because Danger’s eyes are on me, dark and searching, like he’s trying to figure out if this is a joke or a dare or a mistake we’re both about to make. I climb into his lap before I can second-guess myself.
His hands find my waist as he pulls me the rest of the way down, my knees on both sides of his hips. "What happened?"
I don't answer, my fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt before I even realize I'm doing it.
"Say something," he says quietly, "I'd rather not have to work my way through the crowd to find out."
I know that look. He's not bluffing. And while some part of me melts at the fact that he'd tear apart this whole place for me, another part would prefer not to be responsible for the night's casualty count.
I glance toward Rylee. "I ran into her."
His expression hardens. "What'd she say?"
I clear my throat. "She said you'd never actually be into me." I shrug, trying to make it sound smaller than it feels. "That she knows you haven’t been with anyone since her and.. that she's never even seen us kiss."
Silence. Then—"She said that?"
I nod. His jaw ticks. More than once.
"Listen to me…” He says, running his hand up and down my back. Slowly. Not rushed. Almost protective. And it’s weirdly comforting. "Don't let anybody tell you what I'm into."
Heat creeps into my cheeks.
"The only person qualified to speak for me is me."
His gaze slides over my shoulder. Toward Rylee. Toward everyone pretending they aren't watching before he continues. "And people only say shit like that when they're threatened."
Everything inside me stills. Because for one impossible second... I can't tell if he's acting anymore. Somewhere between the way his voice sounds when it's just for me and the way he’s holding me, I forget Rylee is standing twenty feet away.
Forget this whole stupid fake relationship.
There's only him. His large hands. His steady breathing beneath me. The impossible closeness between us. So close that I can feel his hard length straining against his jeans. Fuck, he feels huge—thick and heavy, and the way he’s already hard just from me being on top of him? Jesus.
A slow grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. "So..."
I raise an eyebrow. "So?"
"You think we should give her what she wants?" he asks.
"You mean... we are going to kiss?"
"Oh, we're gonna kiss." There’s no hesitation in his voice. "If she wants proof, we'll give her proof."
My pulse jumps.
"But listen to me." The grin fades, leaving something steadier behind.
“I’m not kissing you just to prove her wrong.” His thumb drags slowly beneath my jaw. “I’m kissing you because she doesn’t get to tell me what I want. She doesn’t get to speak for me.”
I swallow.
Then in one smooth movement he grabs my thighs and slides me closer. “Stay with me.”
This was supposed to be a statement. A performance. Proof I could play this game without losing my goddamn mind.
But the way he’s looking at me doesn’t feel like pretend.
Then it happens before I can stop it. My mouth crashes against his. It’s not sweet. It’s intense, like I’ve been waiting too long for this. His mouth is hot and demanding as he kisses me back, tongue sliding against mine like he’s discovering me, claiming me.
This might have been a mistake because I've never been kissed like this before.
One hand slides up my back until his fingers thread through my hair, fisting tight enough to hurt. The other grips my waist like he’s afraid I’ll pull away—like he’ll fucking chase me if I try.
The rest of the world disappears, leaving only the slick heat of his mouth, the rough scrape of his stubble against my chin. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of my hips as he adjusts me, tilting my hips until I’m grinding against the bulge in his pants.
“That’s it,” he growls, “now we have a show.”
I whimper—a broken, desperate sound I didn’t mean to make. My fingers claw at his shirt, like I want to tear it off, to feel his skin under my nails.
He’s exhilarating—the solid weight of his body under mine, his ragged breath against my lips, the possessive way his hands are on my body like he’s memorizing every inch.
This was supposed to be fake.
But nothing about this feels like it.
Not when he kisses me like he’s already addicted to it. Not when his cock is rock-hard under me, like he’s seconds away from flipping me onto my back and taking what he wants. Not when every shaky breath between us feels honest.
And the terrifying part?
I don't want to stop.