Page 41 of Fairground

I don’t like pie.

At least, that’s what I tell myself. Maybe I did once—back when things were simpler, and dessert didn’t come with a side of guilt, shame, or a silent calculation of how many extra minutes on the treadmill it would cost me. Somewhere along the way, I stopped giving myself permission to enjoy things like flaky crusts and sweet fillings. These days, the closest I get to dessert is the occasional piece of candy snuck in during a late meeting or the bag I keep in my purse at all times for emergencies.

But now, sitting here staring down ten different slices of pie—ten—this feels like much more than a little indulging. This feels like a full-on rebellion.

My stomach churns as he reads the label on the first two before nudging them forward.

“Okay, so this is from Annabella Frank’s Bakery in Whitewood Creek. They’ve got chocolate and apple for us to sample.”

He slides the apple pie between us, and we both dig our forks in, carving out heaping bites before bringing them to our mouths. As if on cue, my stomach lets out another embarrassingly aggressive growl. It’s been a ridiculously long day, and I haven’t eaten anything since trying—and failing—to choke down some cereal this morning while wrangling the boys. Even still, the lingering effects of last night’s beer had ruined my appetite this morning. I regret last night with a passion for multiple reasons.

Cash hears it, of course. His brows shoot up, and a grin spreads across his face. “Hungry?”

“Yeah, but not for pie.”

“You don’t like pie?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Not really.”

He presses a hand to his chest in exaggerated shock. “Now that’s just not acceptable if you’re living in Whitewood Creek.”

I smirk. “Let me guess—Whitewood Creek is the capital of pie-eating in North Carolina along with being the capital of everything else it seems?”

He throws his head back, laughing loud enough to shake the folding table. When he wipes his eyes, the grin he’s wearing is still lingering. “No, it’s not. But small towns are big on pie-eating competitions. Just don’t let the locals hear you say that you’re not into pie. Especially not Mrs. Mayberry. She makes a mulberry pie that’s the sweetest thing in the south.”

I chuckle and shake my head. “The apple’s good.”

“Try the chocolate.”

He nudges it toward me, and I cautiously spear my fork into the center, swirling it a little before pulling out a tiny bite. The creamy texture makes me hesitate, but when I taste it, I’m surprised. It’s rich and smooth, with a light, mousse-like feeling that melts as soon as it touches my tongue.

“This is more like a cake than a pie,” I declare, nodding appreciatively. “So, it wins in my book.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Figures you’d go for the one that’s basically candy. Willy Wonka over here.”

I arch a brow. “Willy Wonka? Is that really the insult you think it is?”

“Not an insult,” he says, leaning back with a casual shrug. “But come on, Wonka’s a little dark, don’t you think? The guy’s got a villain origin story written all over him.”

“Anorigin story?” I laugh hard, practically choking on the mousse that’s in my mouth.

His eyes light up with amusement. “I like when you laugh, Willy. It lights up your whole face.”

“Calling me Willy feels inappropriate.”

He leans back in his folding chair, studying me with mock seriousness. “You know, I think I’ve seen a bag of gummy worms fall out of your purse before. Maybe you’re more like Wonka than you think.”

Heat rushes to my face—not because of the teasing, but because being called out on the candy that I carry around with me hits somewhere deeper. Somewhere raw.

Cash doesn’t know, couldn’t know, that every bite of food that I take is haunted by my mother’s voice, her constant warningstowatch what I’m eating,to never let myself get too big. Never allow myself to indulge beyond what's necessary to basically survive. Always stay a size zero if possible. And even though I love gummy worms—enough to carry a bag around—I only ever allow myself one a day where I mostly suck on it to make it last and bite back the gnawing hunger when I’ve forgotten to eat and know I might indulge.

It's a stupid little rule I set for myself, courtesy of years of her conditioning.

I try to laugh off his remark, but it’s weak. “You’re ridiculous.”

Cash’s grin falters, replaced by a flicker of concern. Always perceptive, he catches the shift in my expression even though I’d rather he not realize how much that observation stings.

“Hey, I was just messing around. I think it’s cute that you carry gummy worms in your purse. Cute in agoodway.”

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