Mrs. Gormely, our town nosy nelly—fitting since Bibi once confided that’s her first name—has nothing on the whispers that reach my ears today.
As the afternoon wears on, I start to notice things that nip at the edges of my mind, making me worry.
A group of young women follows Lane from booth to booth, giggling and taking not-so-subtle photos. They whisper to each other when they see me, their expressions skeptical. I even overhear one of them comment, “I mean, she’s pretty, but she’s just a small-town baker. What does she have that I don’t?”
The answer, unfortunately, might be “not much.” Especially if all too soon it’ll look like Lane’s father was right about me being some kind of gold digger. I’m not, but the “final notice” document and back rent debt suggest I’ve just been after his money. I’m going to have to face the reality that I’ll lose the bakery. I have no doubt he’ll want to help because the man is generous that way, but I can’t accept it. Not only because of the way it’ll seem, but because it means I’ve let Bibi down. I wasn’t able to carry on her legacy. I feel like I have the wordfailurewritten across my forehead in face paint.
I push the thoughts away and focus on the hot chocolate contest where Lane is indeed dominating the competition. He’s made it to the finals against MarshaSimmons (apparently, her secret ingredient is cornstarch) and, surprisingly, Beaumont Hammer, the Knights’ goalie (allegedly, his secret ingredient is something called cereal milk).
“I don’t have any secret ingredients,” Lane tells the gathered crowd with mock seriousness. “Anyone can do this. All it takes is patience and quality ingredients.”
Holding up the bag of vanilla bean marshmallows I made especially for today, I add, “And homemade marshmallows don’t hurt either.”
“My wife knows what she’s talking about.” Lane wraps an arm around my waist, and the casual way he says “my wife” makes warmth all mushy in my chest.
Then I catch sight of Coach Badaszek standing near the game area, and his expression stops me cold. He’s watching Lane with what looks like disappointment or maybe concern. When he notices me looking, he quickly turns away.
That can’t be good.
To keep things friendly, the hot chocolate contest results in a three-way tie, complete with chocolate gold medals. Lane gives his to Kai and he wears it proudly. The kid’s smile broadens.
Since during an ordinary game Kai can’t go to the locker room at the Ice Palace, Lane asks if he wants to help him get ready to play later. Kai’s smile somehow gets even bigger and the sight of it calms my nerves. I remind myself that I’ve been under stress too and am probably feeling extra sensitive to things like fan girls and grumbly coaches.
“Guys, I have to head back to the bakery booth.” I hug Kai and then drop a kiss on Lane’s cheek since I may not see him again before the game starts. “Good luck.”
He draws Kai and me to his sides in a family hug and says, “Luck? Not necessary. I have everything I need right here.”
That should make me feel better, but like a pendulum, I keep swinging from worry to calm and back again.
As I pass the main stage on my way back to the bakery booth, a few women approach me, begging to take selfies and asking me what it’s like to be married to LSJ. They’re not vicious, but having lived a relatively private life, I don’t like this feeling of being scrutinized. My skin crawls and my temperature spikes.
A man approaches, clad in black. He has a greasy mustache that I don’t think is a result of his taking part in the corn on the cob eating contest. I vaguely recognize him as the paparazzo who was at the bakery earlier.
His eyes rove over me, sending a shiver across my skin. As I attempt to walk out of his path, he closes the space between us, getting into my personal space. He hisses, “Listen, you and I could cut a deal. Answer some questions about the Sheridan family and I’ll make sure that little bakery of yours doesn’t go under.”
I’ve never heard panic being described as a color, but right now it’s a stark shade of white. My mouth goes dry. I freeze. Then, as the rest of his comment catches up to me—that he wants info about Lane and thinks there’s an amount of money he can pay me to betray my husband—I see red.
Brushing past him and charging toward the stage where Leah welcomed everyone, I have one foot on the step when a hand clasps around my arm. I assume it’s the sleazy paparazzi guy, and whip around to see Lane standing there, concern pinching his expression.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just keep getting asked about?—”
“Us?”
I nod and then notice, over Lane’s shoulder, that severallarge men form a huddle in the exact place the paparazzo stopped me.
Lane follows my gaze. “It’s safe to say they’re putting a stop to his inquiries.”
A flurry of thoughts turns into a mental blizzard as I blurt, “I was about to do something impulsive, announce to everyone gathered that Kai isn’t my biological son and we didn’t marry for love. But those aren’t the only things that form a family. There’s loyalty and choices, sticking together even when it’s difficult. There’s the kind of love that grows. That stays. Even though I’m afraid of you going, of losing everything.” My voice falters.
Lane tips my chin so I meet his eyes. Mine well up with tears.
He says, “I choose you. I choose us, no matter what anyone thinks.”
“I do too.” I truly mean those first two words, an echo of our vows.
He wraps his arms around me, boosting me off the ground, hugging me close.
