Page 43 of Fairground

I swallow. “Okay, but I think we need to make some decisions about these pies.”

“Mhm,” he murmurs, his attention still laser-focused on me.

The way he looks at me—so intensely, like I’m the only thing in the world worth paying attention to right now—is unnerving. I shift in my seat, leaning back and letting my hand fall to my stomach, a reflex I don’t even realize I’ve done until his fingers still on my knee and his eyes drop there.

“Why are you doing that?” he asks, his tone gentle but pointed.

“Doing what?”

His gaze doesn’t waver, and I know he’s noticed. The way I instinctively try to shield myself, to make myself smaller, to cover the parts of me that I’ve always been taught should be hidden.

If I can pinch anything around your waist, then you’re still eating too much.My mother’s words echo in my mind.

It’s second nature at this point. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid, a learned habit from years of my mother’s voice warningme towatch my figure. To be careful of gaining in the stomach region because no man would want to see that.

Even now, as an adult, I know the truth—I know it’s normal as a woman to have extra softness there. To not be all sharp angles and hard edges. I know it’s protective to have extra fat covering my uterus and anywhere else on my body. It’s not something I’m ashamed of anymore. I’ve learned to embrace my femininity, enjoy the parts that make me softer. Curvier. A bit rounder than other woman. But that knowledge doesn’t silence the voice in my head that tells me to shrink or the way that my body’s been conditioned to cover my stomach anytime it might be visible. It’s habit. Especially when I’m ovulating and way more bloated than usual.

My stomach rumbles again. I haven’t eaten more than a few bites of pie today, and my hunger is impossible to ignore now. I know I need to eat something soon but there’s no way I can eat anymore of this pie now that I’m so in my head. Maybe I can stop on the way home and pick up a salad.

Cash’s hand drops from my knee, and he pushes himself to his feet.

“What are you doing?” I ask, startled as he begins packing the pies into their boxes.

“Getting you some dinner.”

“No!” I protest on a panic. “What about the pies? Mrs. Mayberry needs an answer tonight.”

He smirks, completely unfazed. “My dad loves pie.”

I blink. “Okay...?”

His grin widens. “Kent Marshall is a man of many talents, and one of them is pie tasting. I live with my dad. I’m taking youhome to feed you, and while you eat, he’ll judge the pies for us. He’s the best pie judge there is anyway.”

“Oh.” My heart stumbles over itself, and I’m not sure if it’s from the sweetness of the gesture or the fact that he saw a need and took immediate action without hesitating. He knew I was hungry so he’s taking me to his house to feed me. It’s as simple as that.

No man has ever been so attentive and accommodating in my life.

He finishes packing the boxes and then lifts the stack effortlessly into his arms. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” I murmur, standing and following him out of the tent to my car. Because apparently, tonight, Cash is feeding me. And I’m not sure I have the willpower to say no.

Chapter 17: Cash

Twenty minutes later, I’m standing outside my house in the cold and dark, shirtless, grilling steak for the Caesar salad I’ve planned for Rae.

Do I feel bad about immediately ditching her with my dad—theKent Marshall, a man who could charm a fly if he tried and a legend in our small town?

Not even a little bit.

If I inherited my happiness, good looks, and positive attitude from anyone in my massive family, it’s him. My dad used to be the talk of the town, he knew everyone, loved everyone, and was loved in return. He still is, to a degree, though he’s slowed down a bit now that he’s in his mid-sixties. His recent health issues haven’t helped either. Thankfully, me and my siblings have stepped up to keep the family farmstead and distillery running strong while he gets to rest and keep us all laughing.

Besides, Rae could probably use a little pep talk from him. My dad may give his kids plenty of shit, but he’s always been great at pointing out the best in us, and I’m betting he’s doing that forRae right now. Pointing out all the good parts of her that I see but she seems bent on hiding.

He’s sharp enough to sense that I like her—and trust me, I don’t bring just any woman home to sit and chat with my dad. Usually, they go straight upstairs to my bedroom. But Rae’s different. She’s skittish, and I like that about her. Hell, I likeher,though I get the feeling she still hasn’t warmed up to me.

I flip the steak, making sure it’s got a good sear on it while I think about whether she really doesn’t like pie. I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t like pie. Maybe she’s just not into sweets, or maybe there's another reason behind the way her nose wrinkled after every bite she took when we were under the tent. I get the feeling there’s more behind that preference, but I didn’t want to push. Plus, I knew Dad would be the perfect taste tester for this whole project and the look of relief that flooded her face when she realized she was off the hook confirmed that for me.

When the steak looks good, I plate it, glance at my shirt that’s still hanging over the edge of the deck fence, and decide to leave it. Rae may never admit it, but I’ve caught her checking me out, and I like the way her gaze feels on me. I like making her a little nervous, keeping her on her toes with what I'm going to show up wearing. Which is why I've been wearing my most ragged T-shirts lately. The more holes the better because those seem to draw her attention the most.

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