Around me, the other bakers are already moving like clockwork, rolling pins slamming against dough, the clatter of bowls filling the air. June is slicing apples in perfect, uniform wedges, and Cora is already working on some lattice design that makes my stomach dip.
I focus harder. This isn’t about them. This is about me, about the recipes I grew up with, the woman who taught me that flour under my nails meant love in someone’s belly.
My grandmother’s pies weren’t fancy, but they were unforgettable. That’s what I want to make here.
The butter is cut into the flour, and I rub it in with my fingertips, working quickly but carefully. The mixture turns crumbly, ready for water.
My breathing steadies slightly—this part, I can handle. Dough is familiar, forgiving if you treat it with care. I mix, press, and gather the ball into my hands, wrapping it before setting it aside to rest.
A glance up, and I catch Beau pretending to mime rolling dough, grinning like a fool. It almost makes me laugh. Simon is shaking his head at him, but his lips twitch with amusement. Levi meets my eyes again from across the way, his parents still talking, but his smile is only for me.
Warmth floods my chest, and my fingers stop shaking.
I roll out the crust, sprinkling flour across the counter, the rhythm of the rolling pin calming my nerves. I know this motion better than I know myself.
Back and forth, turn, back and forth again, until it’s even and smooth. I lift it carefully into the pie dish, pressing it against the edges, trimming the excess.
For filling, I reach for the apples—crisp, tart, the way Grandma liked. I slice them thin, tossing them with sugar, cinnamon, and just a hint of nutmeg. The smell rises instantly, enveloping me in memory, warmth, and home.
I close my eyes for half a second and see her hands guiding mine, teaching me not to be afraid of imperfection. “Pie is meant to be shared, not admired from afar,” she used to say.
By the time I lay the top crust over the apples, my nerves are shifting into something else. Focus. Purpose. I crimp the edges with practiced fingers, cut small slits for steam, and brush the top with egg wash. The crust gleams under the lights.
Around me, the tent is alive with chaos. June’s pie is already in the oven, her movements sharp and efficient. Cora is fussing with elaborate cutouts for her topping.
Hank swears under his breath as something burns, and Ruth hums softly, her hands moving with decades of grace.
Daniela’s station smells of peaches, sweet and firm, and Grant is still talking more than baking, his pie dish suspiciously empty.
I slide mine into the oven, exhaling a long breath.
When I glance up again, the three men are still there, exactly where I left them. Watching and believing in me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Simon
The pie competitionis in full swing. The scent of butter, cinnamon, and sugar mingles with the tang of caramel apples and roasted nuts, drifting through the square and catching in the threads of my overworked stomach.
Children weave through the crowd, sticky fingers clutching lollipops, while adults pause at booths, sampling pies and chatting with bakers. Bright banners flap in the wind, and the soft murmur of conversation blends with laughter and the occasional clatter of trays.
But I’m not watching the ovens or the bustle around me. I’m watchingher.
Wren’s at her station, flour dusting the curve of her cheek, apron strings cinched at her back, green eyes focused like nothing else exists.
Her lips move silently, counting, maybe. Or whispering to her grandmother the way she sometimes does when she thinks no one’s listening.
Christ, she’s beautiful, standing out amid all this chaos.
“Come on,” Beau says beside me, jostling my shoulder. “Let’s go say hi to Levi’s folks before his dad thinks we’re ignoring them.”
He’s right. I adjust my glasses and nod, letting him lead the way across the packed square.
Levi’s parents are easy to spot near the roped-off area, his father’s broad frame cutting through the crowd, his mother with her warm smile and tidy braid, her hands folded neatly in front of her.
“Mr. and Mrs. Maddox,” Beau greets easily, offering his hand. “Good to see you both.”
“Beau,” Levi’s father rumbles, his grip firm. “Dr. Hale.”
