Page 19 of Fairground (Whitewood Creek Farm #3)

Cash grabs two plastic forks from next to the empty boxes and hands one to me.

“We just have to take a taste of all ten and then make a decision.”

“Okay…” I respond, but thinking about even a single bite of pie fills me with dread.

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.”

“An origin 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 warnings to watch 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 a good way.”

I shake my head, refusing to let him see the burn that's now behind my eyes because I'm not weak, and I've worked so hard not to allow her words to impact me anymore. Not to let them come up unwelcomed.

I blink hard, forcing myself to focus as I push my fork into the next pie—a bright, sticky cherry one. Gross. Or maybe it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted and I’m just lying to myself now.

I shove a bite into my mouth, the tartness biting at my tongue and providing just enough distraction to keep the burn in my throat from becoming tears.

Except the problem is that the cherry’s delicious too.

I want to stop eating it, know I should stop, but I can’t, because now it’s a distraction from the way that Cash is looking at me and the way he's trying to figure me out.

We’re sort of friends. He’s teasing. He didn’t mean anything by his comments. He isn’t looking at the way that your clothing fits too tight around the waist or the extra weight you carry in your ass.

I chant these truths to myself like a mantra, but it doesn’t stop the echo of my mother’s voice, or the shame that settles heavy in my chest.

“Hey. Look at me, Rae,” his voice is softer and commanding but I refuse to make eye contact with him. “Rae. Did I say something wrong?”

He reaches over and places a hand on my knee, squeezing gently, his touch warm and grounding, as if he’s trying to pull me back into the moment. I blink two more times at my lap then plaster the brightest smile I can muster across my face and shake my head quickly when I meet his gaze.

“Of course. Just... not a fan of cherry pie.”

His eyes narrow, studying me as though he can see right through my deflection as my mouth and throat work to chew up the delicious bite I just consumed.

And knowing Cash, he’s probably reading me like a book.

But instead of pressing on a spot that feels sore, he dips his fork into the cherry pie in front of me, scoops up a bite with that maddening ease of his, then drags it slowly along his tongue in a way that feels deliberately.

.. seductive. All while never breaking eye contact with me.

“Cherry’s actually my favorite,” he says, voice low and smooth.

Of course, he finds the only whole cherry in a pie full of minced ones. He plucks it from the gooey filling and holds it out toward me, his dark eyes gleaming with challenge.

“Suck,” he says.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

His brow lifts. “You heard me.”

I shake my head, my lips pressing together in a stubborn line. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

His lips twitch, amusement playing at the corners.

“Hmm.” He hums softly, then brings the cherry to his own lips.

His tongue darts out, swirling around the small fruit in a way that can only be described as sinful and completely inappropriate before it spikes around the edges, licking off the goo that’s lingering there with a few sharp flicks.

I draw in a breath as his jaw tightens and his throat works to swallow, the motion so fluid it feels obscene. The way his whole body seems to move with the bite—slow, deliberate, sinful—makes it impossible to pretend this isn’t intentional. Like he’s showing me exactly what that mouth can do.

And hell... I think I’d really, really like it.

“Is it the flavor you don’t like,” he asks, leaning closer, “or something else?”

“Something else,” I whisper.

His brow arches. “Care to share what that something else is?”

I wet my lips, unable to stop myself from staring at him as he takes another bite of the pie, and shake my head. “No.”

His hand moves from my knee, his fingers trailing lightly along the soft, cotton fabric of my pants. It’s such a simple touch, but it ignites something inside me.

I’m already horny, can literally feel my clit throbbing in my underwear, desperate for some friction beyond my underwear as the tension coils tighter between us.

I need him to flip forward his baseball hat.

Turn down the sexiness that he’s oozing right now because clearly, I’m not thinking straight.

“What are you doing, Cash?” I ask.

He shrugs, entirely too nonchalant as he continues to make soft circles with his fingers on my knees. “We’re just talking and eating pie.”

How does he say that so casually? Like it’s something he does to everyone. “I see that,” I say, my voice unsteady. "But why is your voice all... gravely?"

He chuckles. “That’s just my voice. I can't change that."

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 warning me to watch 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 you home 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.