Then his eyes find mine across the crowded lawn.
I don't look away fast enough.
Something hot and complicated passes between us—recognition, want, frustration, and finally anger.
His jaw clenches for the briefest second before he deliberately turns back to the kid waiting for help.
Dismissed.
Fine. I deserved that.
Doesn’t mean it doesn’t bleed.
I throw myself into documentation mode, capturing every wholesome moment I can find. The seventy-year-old man whose beard reaches his belt buckle. The father-son duo entering matching categories. The group of women who showed up with fake beards in solidarity, calling themselves the “Beard Wives Support Group.”
But my camera keeps drifting back to Everett.
He judges the Future Lumberjack category with the gravity of someone deciding international treaties. Shakes every tiny hand. Tells every kid their beard is spectacular. Poses for photos with the winners like they're meeting a celebrity.
The parents eat it up. The kids adore him. Even Tara's camera crew is circling, clearly recognizing good content when they see it.
I stand just on the outside. Dying inside. Because the man I love is going to make an incredible father someday.
And I don’t see a clear path to it being with me.
Chapter Nineteen
Sierra
The sausage festis in full swing by noon, and the innuendo has reached levels that would make a sailor blush.
“Come get your hands on Morgan meat!” Caleb hollers from behind the demonstration table. “Traditional family recipe! Stuffed fresh this morning!”
I'm going to kill him. I'm going to stuffhiminto a casing and serve him to the guests.
Charlie, bless her pregnant heart, is actually running the educational portion—explaining the heritage of Maine smoking techniques, letting guests try their hand at grinding and stuffing, handing out samples that smell incredible despite the questionable marketing.
“You look like you need a drink,” Holly says, appearing at my elbow.
“I need several drinks. And possibly a lobotomy.”
“That bad?”
I gesture vaguely toward the beard competition staging area, where Everett now helps break down thecraft table. A little boy clings to his leg, apparently having decided that the nice man with the yarn is his new best friend.
Holly follows my gaze. Her expression softens. “Ahhhh.”
“Don't.”
“I wasn't going to say anything.”
“You were going to say something supportive and wise and I can't handle that right now.”
“I was going to say he'd make beautiful babies.” She grins when I glare at her. “What? I'm allowed to think about babies.”
“You're allowed to think aboutyourfuture babies. Andtheirfuture dad. Not my—” I stop. Regroup. “Not anyone else's hypothetical babies.”
“Mmhmm.” Holly links her arm through mine. “Come on. Let's get you a Heritage Hot Dog before your brothers run out of dirty jokes to make about tube meat.”
