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They continue talking, but Noel catches Dove’s hand, guiding us away quickly. Once we’re at Sawyer’s old Silverado, which she’s now driving, she lets out an exasperated noise.

“Same here.”

Dove looks up at us with worried eyes. “Darcy’s sure going to win Princess Peach now.”

Noel’s lips tighten, and she shakes her head. “That’s not how it works, honey… At least, that’s not how it’s supposed to work.”

A note of worry is in her voice, and I decide to meet Digger head-on with this pageant nonsense. He’s not the only one with a bankroll.

25

Noel

Dove is infatuated with Taron, and to his credit, he’s taking the time, getting to know her. Every morning, he’s up with us at breakfast, talking to her and letting her help him make hoecakes.

She sits on his hip watching as he spoons the batter into the pan, and they wait, having little conversations about her favorite foods, her friend Boo, Angelina Ballerina, and of course, Princess Peach.

“That one’s ready.” Her head is on his shoulder, and she points to a cake in the back right corner. “That one’s ready, too.”

He flips them, balancing her on his arm. “Good eye.”

His muscle flexes, he kisses her head, and I can’t stop a swoon…

At night she snuggles up with him on the couch while he reads whatever Angelina Ballerina book she’s chosen. I peek through a crack in the door to watch, snorting as he does the different voices.

He’s so big and she’s so little, but they look so much alike. I’m surprised my brilliant little girl hasn’t figured it out yet.

“You can be Mr. Operatski.” Dove points to a picture in the book.

Taron makes a face. “I don’t like him. He’s a big grouch all the time.”

Her little lips press together and she thinks. “Mr. Mouseling?”

“He’s Angelina’s dad?”

She nods, and the way he looks at her, the tenderness in his voice, melts my heart. “Okay.”

“He runs the Mouseland Gazette, but he builds stuff, too, like the Royal Theater for Angelina to play with.”

He might be taking it slow, but my heart is off to the races. It’s like a puppy on a leash, straining and jumping all around for the thing it wants.

The thing that isn’t good for it.

The thing that almost killed it.

During the days he works with my brother, preparing the soil for planting, going into town and meeting with the growers, stacking the new trees as they arrive, their roots wrapped in burlap sacks.

Sometimes, on my way to prepping my store, I’ll slow my pace to watch him work, to let my eyes run down his strong body, watching the flex of his muscles, the deepening of the lines in his arms, and the pull of the fabric across his shoulders.

Of course, he busts me, and his grin is as powerful as ever, even more now that his hair falls over his eyes. He pushes it back with a large hand, and my memories of those hands on my body flood my mind.

Blinking away, I focus on the store and my future—cleaning, arranging, making the products I need to sell.

Time passes.

Thanksgiving is in a few days, and I’m sitting at the table going through the paperwork Deacon prepared to register Miss Jessica’s old shed as a place of business when he bustles through the door with Dove chattering beside him, home from school.

She skips to the table where I’m sitting and climbs into a chair. “I told Ms. Moody we’re making presents for Miss Jessica’s friends at Pine Hills. She said we’re doing community service.”