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.
