Chapter 13 Annabelle
W arm skin. Faint soap. The barest trace of sawdust and motor oil.
He’s wrapped around me like armor—one leg draped over mine, his hand splayed across my belly, thumb drawing slow, lazy circles into my skin.
And for one perfect moment, I forget.
Forget what Emma confirmed yesterday.
Forget that my divorce papers were flagged for fraud.
Forget that this marriage—the one wrapped in apple blossoms and reckless hope—might not be valid at all.
I breathe in safety. Belonging. Him. And I let myself pretend that’s enough.
My heart aches in the best way.
I shift gently, trying not to wake him, but his grip tightens. His voice, thick with sleep, grazes the back of my neck.
“Don’t even think about it.”
A smile tugs at my lips. I press a kiss to his jaw. “I have more pies to bake.”
The fact Derek bought me a bakery still feels like a dream.
“Let ’em wait,” he murmurs, nuzzling behind my ear. “The world can survive without sugar for one more hour.”
“Not if the town expects my apple pies tonight. This is your fault, by the way. You bought the bakery and promised them dessert.” I slip out from under his arm, wincing as my thighs protest. “Also? Ow.”
He props himself up on one elbow, hair mussed, grinning like he invented sin. “That was the goal.”
My cheeks flush hot. I lob a pillow at his smug face.
By the time I tug one of his shirts over my head and pad downstairs, the sun has started pouring through the kitchen windows. The farmhouse is still, wrapped in that early hush of birdsong and the low purr of the coffeemaker.
I’ve barely rolled out the first pie crust when he appears in the doorway. Shirtless. Sweatpants riding low, the V of his hips drawing my eyes like a dare.
“Didn’t think you’d start without me,” he says.
“You bake now?”
“I assist.” He ties an apron around himself with exaggerated precision. “Strictly muscle and moral support. Thought you could use a hand, since this is all my fault.”
He steps closer, arms sliding around my waist, breath brushing the nape of my neck before his lips do. Warm. Comforting.
God, I love how he always wants to kiss me. Everywhere.
His grip tightens. Just a little too much. Like letting go means losing me.
I melt into him for a beat… Then flick a bit of flour over my shoulder. It lands on his chest.
He freezes. “Did you just start a war?”
“Guess you’ll have to find out.”
Flour hits my hair like a snowstorm.
“Derek!”
It escalates fast.
Flour. Dough. Laughter.
He lifts me onto the counter, but I kiss him before he can retaliate. It distracts him for half a second, until he dips me into a kiss that curls my toes and brands us both in flour handprints.
We’re breathless. Grinning. And for a few blissful minutes, the world shrinks to this kitchen.
Not May Day. Not Mike. Not forged papers or looming lies.
Just heat, and home, and him.
He wipes flour from his arms, his grin easy, boyish. Like this is just another lazy morning, another pie-filled day.
But my heart twists, sharp and quiet.
Because I’m still lying to him.
The forged divorce. The blackmail. San Francisco. It’s all out there, still circling, still waiting to strike. And every time he looks at me with that unguarded certainty, a little voice in my chest whispers: He’ll never forgive me when he finds out I didn’t tell him everything.
Eventually, the pies make it to the oven. Derek promises to handle the cleanup, though judging by the trail of flour across the floor, and the glint in his eye, it might take him a while.
The oven ticks behind me, counting down the minutes like it knows what I’m about to do.
Derek hums to himself as he wipes down the counters, utterly oblivious to the storm still gathering at the edges of my life.
I slip out the back door barefoot, the porch warm underfoot, the morning sun already starting to burn through the dew. The RV sits quietly in the yard, tucked behind the barn like a sleeping secret. From here, it looks harmless.
But I know better.
Inside that metal box is the truth I’ve tried to bury twice—once in San Francisco, and again in the folds of forged paperwork.
I swing the door open. The scent of dust, lavender cleaner, and memories hits me like a punch. I step inside, the floor creaking under my weight.
Everything’s exactly how I left it.
Folded blankets. Empty teacup. That crooked picture frame of Derek holding a trout and grinning like an idiot.
I reach under the bench seat.
The journal is still there. So is the gun.
I wrap the pistol in an old dish towel and slip it into the bottom of my tote bag beneath a Tupperware of bourbon pecan tarts. Southern hospitality and self-defense, all in one.
The weight of it shifts something inside me. Something braver. Something colder.
I’m done looking over my shoulder. Done hiding. If I can get Mike alone, I’ll make him understand in a language he finally respects: fear. He leaves this town for good, or I expose everything.
I close the RV quietly and pause at the door, holding the tote close to my body. One Bishop was hell. Two? That’s enough to burn the whole orchard down.
I head back into the kitchen just as the oven timer dings. Derek’s bent over tying his boots, flour still smudged on his forearm like a love note I forgot to erase.
“You good?” he asks, looking up at me with those soft, searching eyes.
I nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. Just checking the weather.”
He glances out the window. “Still sunny.”
“Good.” I move past him, grab the pies, and slide them into the stacked boxes like I didn’t just arm myself with a loaded threat.
The truth sits at the bottom of my bag, heavy and silent.
Waiting.
The scent of apples and cinnamon clings to my skin, the last trace of a morning that smelled suspiciously like absolution and flour-fueled sin. The truck's packed, the pies are still warm, and Derek just hoisted the last crate like he’s auditioning for a firefighter calendar.
“You know,” I say as I climb into the passenger seat, “if you keep lifting like that, I’m going to need a round two on that RV table.”
He smirks, cocky and unrepentant. “Now that’s motivation.”
The truck rumbles to life beneath us. My heart does too, but for a different reason.
May Day awaits.
So does Mike.
And this time, I brought insurance.
The festival’s in full swing when we arrive. Ribbons twist in the breeze. Kids race past in flower crowns and face paint. The smell of kettle corn, cider, and wood smoke hangs thick in the air like a sugar-glazed fog.
Emma’s already at her decked out booth, radiant and unmistakably done with everyone’s shit. She waves me over with the energy of a woman five seconds from either hugging someone or starting a coup.
“Pie queen! You better have brought the caramel bourbon pie,” she calls.
“I brought three just for you,” I say, unloading the crate like it contains national treasure.
Her donation jar reads Bet on the Baby’s Name! and is already overflowing with cash and wildly inappropriate guesses.
“I’ve got twenty bucks on Eric Junior,” she announces, hands on hips. “But if it’s a girl, I’m going rogue.”
“I thought the ultrasound said a girl?”
Emma shrugs. “This one’s a trickster. I’ve been fake-laboring for three weeks. If I sneeze wrong, people scatter.”
I arrange the pies beneath the pastel-draped tent, scanning the crowd. No red Chevy. No crooked smirk. No threat in boots.
Yet.
“You sure you should be on your feet?” I ask.
She waves me off. “I’m full-term, not made of glass.”
“You could go into labor any minute. ”
She shrugs. “So?”
But even as she says it, I see the way her hand presses to her belly, slow and firm.
Still no sign of Derek. Or Eric. They’re across the square helping Blake with the Survivor Game setup.
Now’s my chance.
I dust my hands on a towel and check the crowd again. My pulse is a snare drum under my ribs.
“I need a minute,” I say casually, reaching for the towel again. “Could you watch the booth?”
Emma arches a brow. “You okay?”
“Just need some air,” I lie.
She tilts her head. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Fuck. It’s like she knows me.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
Emma nods once, fierce and silent, then takes her place behind the table like it’s a throne.
I slip into the crowd.
Every step toward the edge of the square feels like a countdown.
I find him exactly where I knew he’d be, just beyond the vendors’ row, near the lineup of racers' trailers, tucked in the shadow of a maple tree like the snake he is.
He’s leaning against the red Chevy, arms crossed, eyes shaded by mirrored sunglasses and malice. The smirk starts the second he spots me.
“Belle,” he drawls, like we’re sharing a private joke instead of a decades-long nightmare.
I walk right up to him, slow and measured, like I’ve got all the time in the world. My heart is a cannonball in my chest, but I keep my voice flat. “We’re not doing this here.”
“Oh, but we are,” he says, pushing off the car with the kind of lazy swagger that makes my skin crawl. “You came to me, remember? Must’ve missed me.”
I reach into my tote bag and wrap my fingers around cold metal.
His eyes flick to my hand. “You packing, sweetheart?”
“I’m not your sweetheart.”
I pull out the gun, quiet, fast, without theatrics, and point it his way. My finger stays on the trigger, and the message is clear. We’re way past warning shots.
His smile falters.
“Get. Out. Of. Town.”
“You threatening me?” he says, voice still smug, but with an edge now. “That’s bold for someone still legally tied to me.”
“You want bold?” I step in closer, unlocking the safety. “I have half a mind to walk into Sheriff Simon’s office right now and file charges for blackmail, coercion, and marriage fraud. If I don’t shoot you first.”
That gets his attention.
I lower my voice, lethal and low. “You used me for a green card. That’s a felony, Mike. ICE would love to hear about your little scam.”