Chapter 17 #2
Tara giggles, and I’m beginning to realize the game is already on. She keeps finding excuses to brush her hand against my lower back, her fingers tracing the hem of my jeans, sending shivers up my spine.
At the citrus stand, she leans in close to whisper in my ear, her warm breath making the hairs on my neck stand up. "They say this lime is an aphrodisiac."
I know she’s lying, but two can play at that game.
While she's sampling a piece of cheese, I come up behind her, my hands settling on her hips, and murmur, " If I don’t end this day shirtless and crowned Hay Bale Hero, I’m lodging a formal complaint with the Summer Festival committee."
I feel her shudder against me, her body warmth seeping into mine. Point, Wilder.
"Cameron Wilder!" A voice booms across the square. "Just the man we need!"
I look up and see a burly man running towards us. My mind frantically flips through a mental Rolodex, coming up with nothing. Do I know him? I plaster a smile on my face, hoping it hides the sudden blank.
Don’t panic. Go with the flow.
But before I could stumble over my words, I feel Tara’s hand give mine a firm, reassuring squeeze. “Fire Chief Harold Thompson! Good afternoon!”
I look down at Tara and she gives me a wink, and right there and then… I know I’m going to marry this woman.
"Hello, Chief." I say cautiously, because nothing good ever starts with someone needing me specifically.
"Pie-eating contest," he declares without preamble. "Bobby Morrison was supposed to represent the fire department, but his wife went into labor this morning. We need someone with your... athletic capabilities."
Tara snorts a laugh beside me. "Athletic capabilities?"
"I'm not eating pie competitively," I protest weakly despite my earlier interest, but Thompson's already steering us toward a table lined with what appears to be an army of blueberry pies.
"Five minutes, winner takes fifty dollars and a trophy," Harold continues like I haven't spoken. "Plus, the ladies auxiliary is running a pool. You're the favorite at three-to-one odds."
"The ladies auxiliary is gambling on me eating pie?"
"Welcome to small-town life," Tara murmurs, but she's grinning.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm wearing a plastic bib with a cartoon blueberry on it and facing down the largest pie I've ever seen in my life. The crowd has somehow tripled, phones are out documenting what will undoubtedly become local legend, and Tara is laughing so hard she can barely stand upright.
"On your mark," a judge calls, raising a starter pistol that seems excessive for a pie-eating contest. "Get set..."
"This is ridiculous," I mutter to my pie.
"EAT!"
Competitive instincts I don't know I had for non-hockey activities kick in immediately. The pie is actually incredible—sweet, tart, with a crust that probably wins awards—but I'm too focused on the methodical destruction of my opponents to properly appreciate it.
Blueberry filling explodes everywhere. The crowd cheers like we're in the Stanley Cup finals instead of a farmer's market. Someone starts chanting my name, which is both mortifying and oddly motivating.
I finish first by a solid thirty seconds, raising my purple-stained hands in victory while the crowd erupts.
The judge presents me with a trophy shaped like a golden pie slice and a fifty-dollar gift card and I immediately hand it to the runner-up.
A teenager who looks like he stuck his entire face in the pie.
"You’re the future champ, kid," I say, clapping him on the shoulder. "Keep training."
The crowd applauds, and I scan the faces, looking for one in particular. There she is, cheering the loudest. I jump off the stage and jogs to her.
"My abs thank you," I tell Tara as she helps wipe blueberry off my chin, still giggling. "That was definitely not in my training regimen."
"You're ridiculous," she says, but her eyes are shining with affection and pride. "And you have filling in your hair."
I like how she’s fussing over me. So I do what any lovesick fool would—I scoop her up without warning, shifting her onto my shoulders in one smooth motion. She squeaks, her hands gripping my head for balance, her thighs bracketing my face in a way that sends heat shooting straight to my groin.
The crowd loses their collective mind.
"Cameron!" she protests, but she's laughing. "Put me down!"
"Not a chance," I call back, adjusting my grip on her legs and trying not to think about how her hem is brushing against my jaw or how perfectly she fits here. "I just won a pie-eating contest. I'm feeling invincible."
"Don't drop the best thing you've ever carried, boy!" Chief Thompson shouts from the crowd.
"Not a chance, sir," I reply, grinning up at Tara. "She's mine."
The possessive declaration comes out rougher than intended, loaded with meaning that makes Tara's breath catch. Her fingers tighten in my hair, and for a moment the crowd fades away. It's just us—her warmth above me, my hands on her skin, the promise of everything we're building together.
"Yours?" she challenges, but her voice is breathless.
"Completely."
I set her down carefully, keeping my hands on her waist until I'm sure she's steady. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes bright with arousal that makes me want to carry her straight back to the loft and finish what we started this morning.
"That was quite a show," she murmurs, pressing closer.
"Just getting started, sweetheart."
We're both breathless, the air between us crackling with the kind of tension that's needs to end with clothes on the floor very soon.
Someone yells, “Get a room!” The crowd roars.
I grin up at her. “You’re my real prize, sweet heart.”
She laughs, breathless and radiant. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously into you,” I say, and it’s not even a line. It’s just true.
All I care about is the way she’s looking at me—like I’m hers, and she’s mine, and this whole messy, sticky, sun-drenched moment is exactly where we’re meant to be.
“Go wash up, Pie King.”
I give her a mock bow, feeling the sticky blueberry stains on my face.
“As you command, Peach Queen.”
The crowd’s still buzzing as I weave through the booths, vendors calling out congratulations and offering napkins I definitely need. I duck into one of the shops on Main—an old-fashioned general store with creaky floors and a bathroom tucked behind a rack of novelty socks.
The cold water hits my face like a reset button. I scrub my hands, watching purple swirl down the drain, trying to breathe past the adrenaline and the way Tara looked at me—Like she wants me just as much as I want her.
I towel off, glance in the mirror. Still flushed. Still very much not done with her.
Outside, the sun’s lower now, casting everything in gold. I spot her across the street, laughing with someone, hair catching in the breeze.
That’s when I see them.
The festive hum dims like someone hit mute. A dark maroon, tinted SUV pulls up past Tara and stops. Two thick-necked men get out from the front, movements purposeful and predatory. Then a third man, emerges from the back, adjusting his jacket as his head looks around furtively.
My eyes narrow to focus, a cold knot tightening in my stomach. The severe line of that jaw, the glint of his eyes… Lucien Delacroix.
He gives a short, sharp nod. The two men flank him, forming a wedge as they start across the lawn, their destination unmistakable. They’re moving on her.
The world narrows to a single objective.
Get to her. My love. Nothing else matters.
“TARA!’ Her name tears out of me, not a shout so much as an animal sound.
She turns. Her laugh dies when she sees me charging towards her. A defenseman on a breakaway.
Heads turn. But the men are too fast. One goon grabs her arm. She struggles, her cry of surprise cut off as the other one claps a hand over her mouth. They’re dragging her toward their SUV.
The crowd frays, screams splitting the air. Chaos.
“Call the police!” someone shouts.
My focus is a laser. My legs pump, eating up the dry, packed earth. People part before me, a sea of shocked faces.
I reach Lucien first. He turns, a smug, triumphant sneer on his face. He doesn’t even have time to register my presence before my right fist connects with his jaw. There’s a sickening crunch, and he crumples to the ground like a cheap suit. One down.
The goons don’t stop. They’ve got Tara almost to the SUV’s open side door.
“Hey!” someone yells. A pear sails through the air, hitting one of the goons in the shoulder.
Then another, an apple. A loaf of sourdough.
Someone throws a decorative gourd that bounces off the van with a hollow thunk.
An apple glances off my shoulder, another hits Tara’s back, and a snarl rips from my throat.
“Where are the damn baseball players in this town? Get your aim right!” I roar, not breaking stride.
That’s when Cedar Falls joins the melee.
Mrs. Henderson lifts her oak cane like she’s about to join the fight. Thankfully, before it comes down to that, a tall man snatches it mid-air. With one swift crack across the back of the bastard’s knees, the thug howls and collapses.
Scott Maddox appears, a blur of motion, shoulders low, tackling the other goon with a textbook form that would make an NFL scout weep. The man goes down hard.
One of them recovers, now holding on Tara like a shield. He’s dead to me.
I slam him into the vendor table. Chocolate cookies detonate. He hits pavement hard, and I'm already on top—knee pinning his shoulders, elbow across his throat.
He claws. I catch his wrist, twist until something pops. My palm cracks across his jaw—controlled, final.
"Touch her again," I hiss in his ear, "and I'll end you."
His body goes limp. Smart man.
But Lucien, dazed and furious, scrambles to his feet and lunges for Tara again.
Not happening.
This time, my left hook connects. My prominent hand. The power flows from my heels, up through my core, and explodes from my knuckles. He goes down, and this time, he stays down. Out cold.
Tara stumbles, legs wobbling. Before she can fall, I’m there. I catch her with the kind of grab that’s equal parts muscle memory and sheer need—one arm locking under her knees, the other around her back, hauling her up against me.
She breathes into my chest, small and frantic, and I hold her tightly against my chest until the shaking eases.
“You okay?” I demand, voice rough. Her hands cup my face, fingers trembling.
“Yeah,” she nods, though the word is thin. Her pulse hammers against my palm.
A group of kids who had been watching from the hay bales lets out a ragged cheer. The whole market seems to erupt in applause.
Sirens cut through the air, and seconds later, police officers are swarming the scene, cuffing the goons. Chief Alvarez personally yanks a groaning Lucien to his feet and shoves him against the side of the van.
“Lucien Delacroix,” she says, her voice ringing with authority, “you’re under arrest for attempted kidnapping, assault, arson, reckless endangerment, intimidation, and vandalism.”
From the back of the crowd, a familiar voice shouts, “And for bad fashion choices!”
The tension breaks. The whole damn town erupts in laughter. Lucien screams like a spoilt child.
Just when I think it can’t get any more surreal, a long, black limousine glides to a stop at the edge of the scene. Sleek and expensive and completely out of place among the pickup trucks and restored chrome classics at the market.
The back door opens, and a man steps out, commanding attention without trying. Early sixties, tall, with immaculate silver hair and a suit that probably costs more than a car.
The crowd falls silent again, sensing that whatever just happened was only the opening act.
"Papa," Tara whispers in my arms.