Page 50 of Secret Southern Promises

I felt my stomach twist.

That pie.

I had made it for Boone.

Nobody else knew that, of course, but the knowledge felt like a heavy weight in my chest. I forced a smile onto my face as a few people turned to glance my way. I nodded, pretending like I wasn’t about to fall apart. Pretend like Boone’s absence didn’t feel like a slap in the face.

The auctioneer started the bidding, his voice rising with each number.

“Five dollars,” someone called out.

“Seven!” another person added.

It went up slowly, inching along. “Nine dollars,” the auctioneer announced, glancing around for more interest.

My heart sank further with every passing second. It wasn’t about the money, not really, but seeing that pie—hispie—being sold off like any other dessert made my chest ache. I’d baked it thinking of him, hoping he’d be here to bid on it and to share some kind of moment between us. But now, it was just another item on the list. Something to be crossed off and forgotten.

“Seventeen dollars,” the auctioneer called, his tone losing a bit of its enthusiasm as the bidding stalled.

My palms were sweaty, and I rubbed them against my thighs, trying to steady myself. I needed to get out of here. I couldn’t keep sitting in this room and pretend like everything was fine when it was anything but. I started to shift in my seat, ready to stand up and make some excuse to leave.

And then I heard it.

“One thousand dollars,” a voice called out from the back of the room.

I froze.

I knew that voice.

My heart stuttered in my chest as the room went silent, and every head turned to look toward the back. I didn’t need to look. I knew who it was.

It was Boone.

The auctioneer’s face lit up, practically bouncing in place. “One thousand dollars!” he repeated, his voice brimming with excitement. “Do I hear more?”

But Boone wasn’t done.

“But,” Boone added, his voice loud and clear, “only if I get the baker, too. And my son.”

Oh my god.

The room erupted in whispers and gasps. Everyone turned to stare between Boone and me. I kept my eyes forward and refused to look at him. Refused to acknowledge the stunned looks on people’s faces. My pulse raced in my ears, and I couldn’t breathe.

This had to be a dream.

The auctioneer stammered, caught off guard by Boone’s words. “Uh, one thousand dollars, ladies and gentlemen! For the pie... the baker and her son?”

I could hear the confusion in his voice, like he wasn’t sure whether to take Boone seriously or not. But Boone wasn’t joking. I knew that. This was his way of making a statement, of telling me—and everyone else—that he wasn’t going anywhere this time.

The room stayed quiet for a few long, agonizing seconds, and then I heard his boots heavy on the library’s tile floor. Each step felt like a challenge, like he was daring me to turn around, daring me to face him.

I didn’t.

Not yet.

He stopped when he was next to me. I could feel his presence beside me, but I still couldn’t look at him.

“Dolly,” he said, his voice softer now, meant just for me. “I’m home, honey.”

---