Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Stop lettin’ ’em squeeze the tomatoes,” Margie said, counting out change without looking up.
“I’m not lettin’ ’em squeeze anything,” Cassie replied, sliding a bag across the table. “They’re doin’ it all on their own.”
It was the last day of Redwater County’s yearly festival—River Days—and the heat clung to the Wierswood fairgrounds even as the sun dipped behind the mountains.
Margie’s booth sat halfway down one of the vendor rows, crates of fresh tomatoes and squash out front, bundles of herbs and jars stacked behind—pickled beans, chow-chow, all kinds of jam.
Across the way, The Blue Rooster’s booth was buried behind a line Cassie couldn’t see through. Farther down, Darlene had a setup, the smell of pulled pork sandwiches drifting through. Every so often, someone stopped at Margie’s table with one, grease soaking through the paper, sauce on their chin.
“I keep tellin’ you—see ’em squeezin’, you slap ’em.” Margie nodded toward a woman digging through a crate.
“I’m not slappin’ folks for touchin’ tomatoes.”
The woman dropped the ones in her hand and moved on quick.
“Look what you did. Scared off another sale.”
“Don’t care one bit. She was manhandlin’ my veggies like it was prom night.”
Another group stepped in, and Cassie fell back into the rhythm of bagging and counting, humming under her breath. From the direction of the stage, someone started tuning up—notes slipping through the noise, drawing attention.
“Word is it’s Childers,” a customer said.
“Heard it might be Godwin,” someone else countered.
As the customers wandered off, a burst of movement cut through the crowd.
“Cassie!”
Junie came flying between people, skidding to a stop at the table with her cap crooked and her softball uniform streaked with chocolate like she’d spent more time eating than selling.
“We made almost four hundred dollars today!”
“Nice one, Junie—that’s some serious cash.”
Bouncing, she continued. “Yup. And we sold out, too. Coach said we’re gettin’ new uniforms now.”
Cassie held out her fist. “Did you do what I said?”
Grinning, Junie knocked her knuckles. “Yup. Told ’em I was so poor my dad couldn’t even buy me a phone.”
She blinked. “Junie—that’s not what I said.”
“You said to make ’em feel bad,” Junie argued. “So I did.”
“She sure as hell did,” a deep drawl added, Nash coming up behind her in a gray T-shirt, his leather cut hanging off one arm, dark hair pulled back in a loose knot.
“Got an earful pickin’ her up—some woman lecturin’ me on proper providin’.”
“Hell,” Cassie muttered. “I swear on my mama that is not what I told her.” She pointed at Junie, bopping her lightly on the nose. “I said puppy dog eyes, sweet as pie—pleases and thank-yous. Make ’em feel so bad they buy two.”
“Some of ’em bought whole bags.” Junie shrugged. “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Nash demanded.
“Crusher.”
“Christ, kid…your mama is gonna murder me.”
“She ain’t done it yet.”
Cassie turned to Nash with a laugh…that died in her throat.
It was a stupid thing—the way the heat sat on his skin, the damp collar of his shirt, the edge of it curled just enough that she caught a strip of tattooed skin beneath.
Morning came back in a heady rush. Sheets twisted around them.
One hand gripping her ass as he thrust hard inside her, the other clamped over her mouth, keeping her quiet.
The way he’d groaned her name right before he came—like he was saying it straight to her skin—branding her with his breath.
Nash, catching the way she lingered on him, started to smirk. “Margie,” he said, his eyes still on Cassie, “you mind keepin’ an eye on this hellion while I steal your girl?”
“My girl?” Margie snorted. “She moved into your place weeks ago. I’m thinkin’ she’s your girl now, Nathanial.
“Junebug, take the apron—and don’t be roundin’ numbers like Cassie here. I want all my pennies.”
His girl.
His. Girl.
Cassie’s stubborn instinct was to scoff it off—to roll her eyes or make a joke—but the warmth that unfurled low in her chest came anyway, every bit as stubborn.
Ever since…the incident—and Nash refusing to leave her side while she healed—they’d slipped into something that felt dangerously close to familiar. Except that it was softer, somehow. And easy in a way it had never been before.
“Pennies aren’t even a thing anymore,” Junie said. “’Sides, most people pay with cards. If I had a phone, I could help.” She shot that last part straight at Nash.
“I don’t got a phone,” Margie replied, “An’ I’m perfectly happy. House phone is bad enough.”
“Don’t tell people that. Tell ’em your TV’s real old or somethin’.”
“My TV is old! And I damn well like it like that.”
“You want people to buy your stuff or not?”
“I want ’em to stop squeezin’ my tomatoes,” Margie grumbled.
Handing off her apron, Cassie came around the table, Nash slinging an arm over her shoulders as they moved into the crowd. Without thinking, she tucked herself tighter into his side.
“You hear who it is?” she asked. “The special guest?”
Nash shook his head. “Heard it might be a woman, but nothin’ for sure.”
The tight pack of people gave way as they turned a corner, space opening between tents, some of the noise easing with it.
Luanne had spread her wares across a couple of tables, secondhand everything piled together with no real order to it. She was busy arguing with a customer while Becca hovered nearby with a baby propped on one shoulder, the older two running wild around the display.
“Benny and Beau—give it a rest! Where’d your goddamn daddy run off to now? Oh—hey, Cas, Nash. See you at the show?”
Cassie lifted a thumb in answer just as her attention snagged on a small table tucked between two larger setups where hand-carved instruments rested in loose rows.
The fiddle drew her in—dragonflies hand-carved along the body, the way the dark varnish caught the waning light.
It made her think of her mama’s old piece, the one with the flowers cut into the wood, handcrafted just for her.
She paused, fingers brushing the curve, tracing the neck, catching the smoothness from years of use. While the varnish looked immaculate and the strings new, the weight of it—the feel—was much older.
“Beautiful,” she murmured, already picturing it under stage lights, the sound of it carrying clean through Carnegie Hall.
The thought hit her strangely. She’d already told Jordan to finish the summer without her—that she’d be back in the city come fall. After that…she hadn’t let herself look.
Couldn’t, if she was being honest.
“How much?” Nash cut in.
Cassie glanced up sharply to find him pulling his wallet free, thumbing through a wad of cash and handing over a stack. “This enough?”
The old man’s eyes widened. “Well, I’d say that’s more than enough. You want a couple harmonicas too—”
“Nash.” She bumped his hip with hers. “You don’t even know if I want it.”
“Hell, I don’t. I know that look. Least now I don’t gotta steal it.”
While the old man ducked down, Cassie watched Nash put his wallet away. There’d been a time he wouldn’t have even bothered asking the price—or paying at all. He’d have swiped it off the table and flashed that crooked grin when she called him on it, daring her to take it back.
Back when neither of them had a damn thing extra.
“Belonged to my wife, God rest her.” The old man returned with a worn case, popping it open to show the velvet lining, the bow tucked inside. Settling the fiddle in carefully, he handed it over.
“Strings are new. She’s tuned sweet. You’ll take good care of her, yeah?”
“Absolutely,” Cassie promised, clutching the case to her chest while Nash drew her back against his side. She wasn’t a collector—one instrument for the stage, one for travel, one in case something went wrong. But this one felt different somehow. Like maybe it had been waiting for her too.
Beyond the food vendors, the festival opened into a stretch of old muscle cars and beat-up classics with their hoods up, locals crowded around the engines arguing over them.
Farther down, chrome flashed in the dying light where the Kings had lined up their bikes—some for sale, others there strictly to show off.
“Sarge’ll be over there somewhere,” Nash muttered, already angling toward the club setup.
Before he could drag her all the way in, Cassie slipped loose and wandered toward Boone instead, where he sat with his leg stretched out in front of him, boot planted, beer dangling from one hand.
Nearby, Crusher leaned against a bike, arms crossed, staring off toward Luanne’s booth like someone shot his dog.
“How’s the leg?” Cassie asked, nodding.
Boone lifted his beer. “Healin’ up nice. Doc Willis says I won’t even have a limp.”
Cassie’s brow shot up. “You’re seein’ Margie’s vet? Does he typically deal with a lot of bullet wounds?”
Boone took a slow drink. “Cas,” he said, chuckling, “this is West by God Virginia. Man’s stitched up half the county.”
“Damn straight,” Crusher muttered. “Bullet wounds probably ain’t even top five.”
She turned to the big man, following his line of sight to where Luanne was still arguing with a customer, hands flying.
“Crush—why you starin’ at Luey like that?”
“Because,” he muttered sullenly, “she said I was a one-night stand. And, hell, I got some pride. Ain’t never talkin’ to her again.”
“So you’re starin’ instead?” Cassie laughed.
“Actually,” Boone cut in, “she said you were a one-night wonder—minus the wonder.”
Crusher spit off to the side and kept staring. “Fuck you, Boone.”
“With the wonder or without?”
Grinning, Cassie patted Crusher’s arm. “You do whatever you gotta do, Crush. But I’m recommendin’ actual words over dirty looks—”
“Relationship advice comin’ from Clifton’s littlest heavy hitter is some damn funny shit,” a new voice cut in.
Cassie spun on Rook, shooting him a look. “I’m just tryin’ to be helpful, Elias—unlike some people.”
“Helpful…” Boone shook his head with a chuckle. “Someone’s in a good mood.”