Chapter 3 Annabelle #2
We finish our drinks in a silence that feels more like home than awkward. Like slipping into a song you hum in your sleep. Familiar safety settles in my chest. For a heartbeat, the whiskey blurs the years, and it feels like no time has passed between us.
The fire Derek always kindled in me never burned out; it merely smoldered like a pilot light waiting for someone to flip the switch and set everything ablaze.
My heart crackles every time he glances at me—and he does it often. My skin remembers his hands mapping my body like Braille. My lips remember the way his mouth lingered, rewriting every one of our mistakes.
I shake the thought off like a bad habit.
Focus, Annabelle. Whiskey thoughts are not to be trusted.
The door to the pub swings open, cool air sweeping in like a warning. I straighten automatically.
I raise an eyebrow and quip, “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
He leans back in his seat, all lazy confidence and bad intentions. “Not sure I have to try, Honeycrisp—you’re doing a damn fine job on your own. Remember the last time we drank this much?”
Oh, I remember.
It ended with me bent over the tiny table in his rusty RV, struggling to catch my breath while he reminded me exactly how many ways he knew how to undo me.
My thighs clench at the memory. I hate how much he knows me.
I grab my suitcase, pushing up from the booth like a woman on a mission, even if my knees wobble like Jell-O in a windstorm.
“All right then, Honeycrisp,” he drawls, rising to his feet. “Let’s get you settled in with the spiders.”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t stop him when he reaches for my bag. He can’t feel the true weight it carries. He doesn’t know what’s within. But Derek Fields is still playing the gentleman, and I let him light all the matches next to my emotional explosives.
Some battles just aren’t worth fighting. And some men are impossible to outrun.
Outside, the air is cool and quiet, the kind of small-town night where everything feels wrapped in cotton. Derek laughs softly as we head down the dusty path, until I wobble and fall into his arms. He loses his balance and we barely regain our composure without falling.
“Looks like we’re both walking home tonight. I’ll pick up the truck tomorrow.”
I pause. “I told you. I’m going to the Inn.”
He sighs like I just declared I’m moving into a swamp full of venomous snakes. “All right. Have it your stubborn way. At least let me walk you there.”
I want to argue.
I should argue.
But my head’s fuzzy, and my legs are loose, and if someone so much as sneezes in my direction right now, I’ll collapse like a poorly assembled lawn chair. Or maybe, he could pull me into one of those rough, grounding hugs that smell like motor oil and home.
“Fine. Walk me there.” My speech is slurred and dreamy. Too dreamy.
We walk. Or rather, I stumble, and Derek adjusts his pace to make it look like it’s not a whole thing. I try to stand tall, but my body’s conspiring against me, so I push up my chin—right as the sidewalk tilts.
Derek’s hand is there before I realize I’m falling, warm and firm against my arm, grounding me like he’s been doing it for years.
And maybe he has.
“Well,” he murmurs, amused, “this is gonna be an interesting walk home.”
“ Motor-Inn, ” I correct, even as I lean just slightly into his grip.
He grins. “Sure, Honeycrisp. Whatever helps you sleep.”
The Motor-Inn looms in front of us like a sad punchline. The neon Vacancy sign buzzes half-heartedly overhead, flickering like even it doesn’t believe in second chances.
Derek doesn’t say a word as I dig for the key I picked up from George. He just watches, expression unreadable, with my suitcase full of evidence still in his hand.
“I got it,” I mumble.
I absolutely do not got it .
The key refuses to cooperate. My fingers refuse to listen. And just as I start to curse under my breath, I pivot way too fast and walk straight into a wall of man.
His chest is broad. Warm. Infuriatingly steady.
And there it is. That scent of motor oil and home. Plus whiskey.
His hands land on my shoulders, steadying me, and suddenly, we’re so close I can feel the heat of his breath against my cheek. My pulse jackknifes.
His grip tightens just enough to make me feel safe and secure. Just enough to make me want to fall apart.
“You sure you don’t want me to check for spiders?” he murmurs, the word ‘spiders’ landing like every fear I’ve tried to flush from my veins. His voice teases with a dark dare.
And I…want to say yes.
God, I want to scream yes.
Yes to the spiders. Yes to the bed. Yes to him staying, to him touching, to him unraveling me the way only Derek can.
But I can’t.
I won’t. I’m still a married woman on paper.
“Honestly?” I whisper, my voice barely there. “I’m just tired.”
He holds my gaze, not pressing, just seeing, like he’s measuring how deep I’ll let him in. I brace for accusation, but he drops my hand, and the empty space feels like ice.
“Good night, Mr. Fields,” I say, because I’m a coward and I don’t know what else to do.
His mouth twitches. “Good night, Honeycrisp.”
The nickname lands softer this time. Almost fond.
I slip inside. By the time I lock the door behind me, my legs feel like half-used jacks, and my heart feels like someone left the ignition running. I press my forehead against the cool wood. My pulse is still erratic, my breath shallow.
It’s just the whiskey, I tell myself.
But I know that’s not true.
I tell myself a lot of things, and not a single one of them prepares me for what happens next.
Because ten minutes later, a fucking spider lands near my toes in the shower. I scream and run out of the bathroom.
There’s a crash.
The door slams open.
And Derek Fields storms in like a man possessed.