Chapter 5
PARKER
T he farmers’ market bustles with the usual Saturday rhythm. Everywhere I look, it's the same old Saturday dance. Boots scraping gravel. People yakking. Air's thick with cinnamon and cooking meat. Some fool's got their radio going, playing the kind of stuff Gram and Gramps used to hum along to.
Paris walks a few steps ahead, hair pulled back, skin glowing, wearing her clothes from yesterday. Her car’s still parked where she left it last night, which she managed to remember, just off the edge of the lot where the gravel turns to dirt.
A glance at the gauge through the window shows the tank’s still full, and relief settles low in my chest. She’ll be able to follow me back to the farm without a problem. No need to leave her car overnight again.
She stops at a vendor selling meat pies while I drop by the butcher shop. I smile at the way she becomes animated when she speaks, but that smile freezes when I spot a familiar figure approach her.
Chad fucking Kingsley.
Golden boy in pressed beige jeans and a creaseless white polo, flashing that too-white smile at anyone who might be watching. Of all the damn people in town, it has to be him.
He saunters up beside her, hands in his pockets, voice just loud enough for me to hear. Something about “pretty girls who know their food.” She laughs politely, and it’s enough to make the blood rise hot beneath my skin.
It takes every control I have not to punch that smugness off his face.
Every muscle in my body coils tight.
Because this man—the one who married the woman who left me when she realized I wasn’t interested in country club barbecues, BMWs, and hair pomade—is standing way too close to MY girl. And already, the thought of someone else even looking at her like that makes my fists clench.
“Paris,” I call out, voice low but sharp enough to cut through whatever the hell Chad thinks he’s doing. “You ready, baby?”
Her head turns toward me instantly, and she beams. That smile is enough to warm me and extinguish the unfamiliar, intense feeling of jealousy. “Almost. Let’s walk around some more?”
Chad doesn’t like being dismissed. He likes being in the spotlight. He gets off on attention.
“Still riding that beat-up tractor around? I feel like I’m about to get tetanus just watching it,” he says, casual as a slap, voice just loud enough for nearby heads to turn.
He’s fishing, like he always does, throwing out bait like he’s desperate for someone to bite so he can puff up his chest and play king of this place. But his words hit like a dull thud. I’ve heard worse from him.
I shrug. “It’s beat-up, yeah. Still more useful than you’ve ever been.”
His smile falters for half a second, then his jaw tightens. “You still bitter about Analie? Still angry she chose me over you?”
The name lands like a brick. Chad wants a reaction, and when he doesn’t get one, he shifts, weight twitchy like he’s the one itching to fight.
“Guess you couldn’t keep her happy,” he adds with a sharp smile.
Before I can speak, Analie slides an arm through Chad’s and leans against his shoulder.
“Oh, boys,” Analie purrs, sunglasses perched on her nose, red hair curled to within an inch of its life. “Don’t tell me you’re fighting over me again. That is so high school.”
Paris stiffens beside me. Her fingers squeeze tighter around the small pie box in her hand.
Analie’s gaze rakes over her, slow and assessing, lips curling at the corners, those familiar green eyes narrowing as they travel from Paris's windswept strawberry blonde waves down to her clearly city-bought boots.
Before she can unleash whatever venomous comment is forming behind that predatory smile, I slide my arm around Paris’s waist and pull her in flush against my side.
Her soft curves fit perfectly against my larger frame, and I can feel some of the tension drain from her shoulders as she leans into my touch. There, better. Let Analie see exactly where things stand now.
“Wouldn’t waste a breath fighting over you,” I say, not bothering to mask the steel in my voice. “But your husband here seems to enjoy walking up on beautiful women when they’re minding their business.”
Chad pins me with a glare.
Analie snickers. “Oh, you have a new pet, Parker? Cute.”
Paris straightens her back and lifts her chin. “Strange. Parker didn’t mention you at all. You mustn’t be as important as you think.”
I nuzzle her neck and smile. “So true.”
When I pull back, Paris has a wicked gleam in her eyes. “And your mouth was too busy to talk.”
I can’t help but chuckle, which feels so odd coming from me. It must have been years since I was genuinely amused and having a grand time.
Without paying any attention to them anymore, I grip Paris’s jaw, tilt her face up to mine, and kiss her hard.
I’ve lived pretty low-key for the past few years, but showing possession in front of half the town doesn’t sound like a bad idea.
Everyone here has to know she’s mine and mine alone. The same way I’m hers.
Her arms wrap around my neck. She kisses me back with all the heat in her body, like she’s claiming me too.
When I pull back, she’s breathless, lips pink, and every set of eyes at the market knows exactly what just happened.
The second our lips part, there’s this strange, quiet beat. Then a burst of applause from the farther stands, getting closer and closer.
I spot four women—my grandma’s old poker buddies—beaming and clapping. Nothing quite like this kind of audience to kill your libido in exactly one second.
“Finally!” one of them, Mrs. Bryant, I believe, hollers, sliding her glasses to her short, white hair. “Took you long enough, Parker!”
Mrs. Richards flaps her hand in the air and fans herself. “You’ve been turning down our granddaughters for years , and now we see why.”
“Oh, hush, Dottie,” Mrs. Allen says, elbowing her. “Let the boy breathe. He’s clearly smitten. Look at him. He’s dazed, and so is she.”
Paris laughs against my chest, cheeks flushed pink. I’m still catching my breath, hand firm on her lower back, and all I wanna do is head back to the farm and continue what we started.
I give the small group a bow. “Good morning, ladies.”
“Come here, honey,” Mrs. James says, waving Paris over. “We’ve been trying to set him up since forever . Man owns most of the farm, and he still wears those jeans from 2008.”
I grit my teeth and resist the urge to roll my eyes. Grandma’s friends love roasting me whenever they can. That hasn’t changed just because I’ve gotten older and grown bigger. “You all act like I can’t hear you.”
“You can hear, Parker, but you never listen . There’s a difference.” Mrs. Allen winks at Paris. “Tell me, sugar, can you cook? Because he sure as hell can’t.”
Paris, my sweet, sweet girl, tries to come to my defense. “Oh, but he can. He made me a delicious breakfast plate.”
“Did he, now?” Mrs. Allen squints at me and rakes her eyes up and down my body. “What did he make you? Eggs, toast, and some fried meat?”
Paris casts me a look over her shoulder. “Uh, yeah.”
“Doesn’t count as cooking, dear. Although that’s an upgrade from back when he only ate straight from the can.”
Paris bursts out laughing, and even though I would very much like the attention far from me, I’m starting to enjoy myself.
“If he ever hurts you,” Mrs. Bryant says, wagging a perfectly manicured finger, “you call any of us. We’ll show up with our favorite weapons, mine’s my dead husband’s old shotgun by the way, and a bottle of your favorite drink.”
“We’ve got pitchforks, too, if you feel like going old school,” Mrs. Richards adds. “Mine’s still sharp.”
Mrs. Allen nods. “And we’re all sharpshooters. We never miss.”
I dart my gaze to every one of them. “Am I being threatened right now?”
“Of course not!” Mrs. Allen slides her arm around mine. I’m not sure if it’s meant to be comforting or threatening. “You’re Maya’s grandson.”
Paris shoots me a look, brows lifted, lips twitching. “So this is the town’s welcoming committee?”
I groan. “It’s the poker club . You’ve just been inducted, whether you like it or not.”
She snorts. “Do I get a badge or free shirt?”
Mrs. Allen wraps Paris in a hug. “No, but you get age-old recipes passed from generation to generation, lots of gossip, and lots of booze.”
“Well then,” Paris says, sliding her hand into mine, “I feel very welcomed and protected.”
And judging by the way they beam at her like she’s already one of their own, she is.