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I sit on the press house floor with my back against a barrel and stare at the ceiling and think about a woman who walked into my life in the wrong shoes and tasted my cider and forgot to perform.

She said she'd write what's true.

She just proved it.

And I pushed her away because I'm so used to being the quiet Holloway, the forgettable one, that when someone finally saw me, I couldn't believe she meant it.

Chapter Six

PIPER

Idon't go back to the orchard.

Two days. I sit in my room at the inn, finish the article on my laptop, and send it to Vanessa with a note that says "Run it as-is or don't run it." She calls me reckless. Calls me emotional. Asks if I'm sleeping with the subject.

"That's not relevant," I tell her.

"It's relevant if it's affecting your judgment."

"My judgment is fine. This is the best piece I've written in three years, and you know it."

Silence on the line. Then: "I'll read it again."

She'll run it. I know her. Vanessa values good writing more than she values brand strategy, even when she pretends otherwise.

The festival is tomorrow. My flight back to New York is the day after.

-I'm sitting on the inn's front porch in Emmett's flannel that I never gave back, drinking coffee, watching the aspens turn.

He hasn't texted. I haven't either.

My phone buzzes. Not Emmett.

Griffin:

Festival tomorrow. Your cider guy is moping. It's pathetic. Fix it.

Also I moved his booth to the entrance like you suggested. Don't tell him I told you that.

I almost smile.

The morning of the festival, I dress in jeans and my boots and Emmett's flannel. Put my hair down. Leave the laptop in the room.

Bear Creek Valley looks like it was designed for this day. Golden light on the meadow. Aspen leaves drifting like confetti. Booths lining the main path with apple butter and handmade candles and Mabel's pie table, which already has a line.

Emmett's cider booth is at the entrance. Right where I suggested.

He's there. Auburn hair catching the morning sun. Hazel eyes scanning the crowd. Flannel rolled to the elbows, forearms golden. He's pouring samples with that easy Holloway warmth, chatting with townspeople, smiling at kids.

He's charming. Not the loud, look-at-me charm of his cousins. Quiet charm. Patient charm. The kind you don't notice until it's already won you over.

He spots me across the meadow. The sample cup in his hand goes still.

I walk toward him. Every step feels like a decision.

He says something to the woman next to him, steps out from behind the booth table, and meets me halfway.

We stand in the middle of the Pumpkin and Plaid Festival with half the town watching, and he looks at me like I'm the only thing in Bear Creek Valley worth looking at.