Page 70 of Dirty Mechanic
“You good?” I ask Emma, nodding to her belly.
She waves me off with a grimace. “Braxton-Hicks. Probably. Might just be the baby doing celebratory flips.”
Eric’s standing behind her, one hand on her back, the other holding a pie plate like he’s defending a football.
“You steal that from Annabelle?” I ask.
“She made me promise to guard the only pecan one. Everything else is apple. I’m under strict orders.”
Emma rubs her belly again, wincing. “He’s nesting. Let him.”
Nearby, Annabelle’s laughing with the Briggses—old-timers from down the orchard road—while they fumble through their wallet for change and congratulate her on our nuptials. She’s in her element, tossing her hair, teasing the mayor about the weight of his apple bag, fitting back into this town as if no time had passed. Someone calls her name, and she turns, glowing in that damn apron she insisted on wearing, even though it barely survived this morning’s flour fight.
God, she’s beautiful.
Every laugh she gives and every pie she sells… She does it with love. And yeah, I’m selfish enough to want to hoard every damn second of it.
But something’s off.
She smiles, but her fingers twitch when they’re not busy. Her eyes keep flicking to the road. She’s not just thinking about the race. She’s thinking about him.
The crowd keeps swarming her booth, cheering, calling her name, shouting congratulations. And every time someone says “Mrs. Fields,” something in me roots deeper. Like I’ve finally landed. Like this is the soil I was always meant to grow in.
Then the mayor raises his hands for quiet, his voice ringing through the speakers.
“Before we begin the evening’s big event,” he says with the flare of someone who loves a captive audience, “let’s give a warm, heartfelt congratulations to Lords Valley’s newest newlyweds, Derek and Annabelle Fields!”
Cheers erupt.
Annabelle’s head jerks up, eyes wide, then sheepish. A blush crawls up her cheeks as someone starts a chant—“Kiss her! Kiss her!”—and Emma groans, clutching her lower back like she’s ten minutes from going into labor.
“You better go”—I hear her—“before the baby thinks you’re ignoring tradition.”
I’m already walking.
Annabelle meets me halfway, braid slipping over one shoulder, pie knife still in hand. Her smile’s a little embarrassed, a little proud. She wipes her hands on her apron.
“You’re a celebrity now,” I say, catching her around the waist.
“I didn’t authorize this level of attention.” She laughs.
“Too late.” I pull her in and kiss her—quick, warm, claiming. She melts into it for a beat, her body soft against mine. And for just one second, I let myself believe this moment is ours. Untouched. Safe.
She laughs as I spin her once, the pie knife still in her hand.
“You’re going to get us arrested,” she whispers.
I glance at the blade. “You planning to carve your initials in my back?”
“Only if you dip me again without warning.”
So, of course, I dip her.
Her braid brushes the back of her knee, and her grin stretches wide. She clutches my shoulder like she’s falling for real—and maybe she is. Maybe we both are.
“Show-off,” she murmurs as I lift her.
“You married a man who tunes carburetors for fun. Of course, I’m a show-off.”
