Page 23 of Jason Bourne
The next morning, I found myself driving Lane to the county fairgrounds underhigh protest.
She’d crossed her arms the whole ride, boots (the same boots Gus returned at dawn, suspiciously chewed) propped on the dash, glaring at me like I’d betrayed her deepest secrets.
“Yousaidthis was breakfast,” she snapped, eyes narrowed as the woodenFraiser County Harvest Fairsign swung into view.
“It is. It’sbreakfastandcommunity outreach,” I deadpanned. “And if you play nice, I’ll buy you a funnel cake.”
She hissed like an offended cat. “Jason. I am notcommunity outreach. I am a highly trained former FBI agent with a known tendency to punch people who speak to me before coffee.”
I parked and leaned over, kissing her annoyed mouth just enough to shut her up. “Relax, sweetheart. You’ll love them.”
We’d barely steppedout of the truck when Tessa spotted her.
Tessa Bannon — Max’s wife — strawberry blonde hair in a messy bun, flour on her cheek, and a big paper sign readingMAPLE PECAN COOKIES — 3 FOR $2taped to her apron.
Her eyes lit up like a golden retriever spotting a tennis ball. “You must beLane!”
Lane stiffened. “Depends who’s asking—”
Too late. Tessa threw her arms around her, muffling Lane’s protest in a cloud of sugar and cinnamon.
Behind her, Willa — Nate’s wife — grinned wide, brushing her dark hair off her shoulder. “She’s real, ladies! Jason didn’t make her up. Welcome to the chaos, Lane!”
Eloise, Lark, Marley, and Jessa lined up behind the folding tables like a suspiciously organized squad. Each had a tray of something sweet or sticky. Each lookedway too excited.
Lane shot me a death glare over Tessa’s shoulder.Rescue me.
I just leaned against a hay bale, arms crossed, grinning like the cocky bastard I was. “You’re doing great, sweetheart.”
Tessa draggedher to the cookie table while Willa and Eloise pounced on her with rapid-fire questions.
“So, how do you like Fraiser Mountain so far? Isn’t the air amazing?”
“Have you met Gus yet? He loves Jason’s yard—”
“Oh, don’t worry about the bake sale rules — we ignore half of them.”
Lane looked like a cat surrounded by bouncy golden retrievers. “I—um—yes? Maybe? Gus is aterror—”
Marley handed her a paper plate stacked with brownies. “Eat these. They help with the culture shock.”
Jessa, calm as ever but mischief sparkling in her eyes, added, “And if you survive today, we’ll tell you where the secret wine stash is.”
By the timeI circled back ten minutes later, Lane had frosting on her nose, Tessa’s apron tied crookedly over her shirt, and Peaches the wandering chicken pecking crumbs by her boot.
She spotted me, eyes wide, voice shrill. “Jason! Theydrafted mefor cookie duty! And someone handed me araffle basketto hold — I don’t even know what’s in it!”
Willa called over her shoulder, “Homemade candles and fudge! Smile pretty, Lane, the old ladies love you!”
I nearly doubled over laughing when Lane turned back to me, cheeks pink, a brownie in one hand and a raffle ticket book in the other.
“Swear to God,” she hissed, “if Gus shows up for this, I’m burning this whole fairground to the ground.”
I kissed her forehead. “You’re doing amazing, babe.”
She flipped me off behind the brownie.
And for the first time in years, surrounded by misfit wives, nosy neighbors, stray chickens, andway too much sugar— Lane Brewer looked like she was exactly where she was meant to be.
