Page 27 of Fat Arranged Mate
"This is Rick Dawson—he runs Blackridge Outfitters," Becky says, introducing us to the bearded man Dylan already met at the hunting store. "And his wife, Martha."
Martha Dawson is a sharp-featured woman with silver-streaked dark hair and calculating eyes that miss nothing.
"The software developer and his nurse wife," she says, shaking my hand with cool efficiency. "Settling in alright?"
"Everyone's been so welcoming," I reply with practiced enthusiasm. "It already feels like home."
"Glad to hear it." Rick's gaze lingers on Dylan. "You still interested in joining us tomorrow night? The hunting group?"
"Absolutely," Dylan answers, his arm slipping around my waist, pulling me closer. "Looking forward to it."
Martha's eyes narrow slightly at the gesture. "You don't mind your husband taking up hunting, Sera? Most city wives would be concerned, I’d think."
The question carries layers of assessment—of my character, my relationship, my place in their social order. I lean into Dylan's side, playing the adoring wife while mentally cataloging Martha's clear position of influence.
"I trust his judgment," I say, injecting a touch of playful concern. "Though I did make him promise to be careful."
Dylan's fingers flex against my hip, a silent acknowledgment of my performance. "She worries too much."
"Smart man, letting her think that," Rick laughs, the tension easing. "Come get something to eat. Sheriff's grilling his famous ribs."
We follow them to the food pavilion, where Sheriff Donovan—a stocky man with a military bearing despite his civilian clothes—presides over smoking grills with the confidence of someone accustomed to authority. His Guardian pin gleams on his chest, larger than most, with a silver inlay that suggests a higher rank.
"The new folks," he says upon introduction, wiping a hand on his apron before shaking ours. His grip is firm, his assessment direct. "Heard you've been asking about local hunting opportunities, Mr. Winters."
Dylan nods, adopting a respectfully enthusiastic demeanor. "Call me Dylan, please. And yes—seems like the thing to do around here."
"Smart man. These mountains require respect and preparation." The Sheriff's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Best to learn from those with experience."
The exchange feels loaded with subtext. I accept a plate of ribs with a thank-you that masks my unease. We've been under observation more closely than I realized.
As we find seats at a picnic table, I'm acutely aware of Dylan's continued proximity. His thigh presses against mine on the bench. His shoulder brushes mine as he reaches for napkins. Each contact sends an unwelcome ripple of awareness through me.
"Attention, everyone!" Mayor Collins—a jovial man with thinning hair and an expansive waistline—calls from the central pavilion. "Time for our traditional couples' games! All married and engaged couples, gather round!"
Becky appears at my elbow, grinning. "You have to participate! It's tradition for newcomers."
"Oh, I don't think—" I begin, but Dylan cuts me off.
"We'd love to," he says, taking my hand and pulling me to my feet. His eyes meet mine with silent communication:our cover.
We join a dozen other couples in a cleared area where the Mayor explains the first game—something involving balloons, coordinated movement, and not using hands. The rules wash over me, secondary to the sudden realization that this will require physical intimacy beyond the casual touches we've managed so far.
"Ready, Mrs. Winters?" Dylan murmurs, positioning the balloon between our bodies as instructed.
His use of my cover name sends a jolt through me. "Always, Mr. Winters."
The music starts, and we're moving together, trying to maneuver across the field without dropping the balloon or using our hands. Dylan's body is solid against mine, his movements surprisingly fluid for someone so intensely controlled in daily life. His hands hover near my waist, not touching but ready to steady me if needed.
"Left," he murmurs, guiding us around another stumbling couple.
We find an unexpected rhythm, anticipating each other's movements with a synchronicity that makes no rational sense. We shouldn't work together this well. We shouldn't fit this naturally.
Yet somehow, we reach the finish line first, the balloon still intact between us. The crowd cheers, and Dylan's genuinesmile of triumph catches me off guard. For a moment, he looks younger, unburdened by the grief and anger that usually shadow his features.
"Well done, newlyweds!" Mayor Collins announces, presenting us with a small gift basket of local products. "Showing us all how it's done!"
More games follow—an egg race, a quiz about our significant others (where we have to rely on our cover story memorization), a three-legged race that has us literally bound together at the ankle. Through it all, Dylan's hands remain steadying, his body warm against mine, his coordination with mine uncannily natural.
