Page 9

For the record, that wasn't for the article.

I type back without hesitating.

Me:

For the record, I don't care about the article.

Piper:

What do you care about?

Me:

Come back tomorrow and find out.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Piper:

Okay.

I lock the press house, walk inside, and stand in my kitchen smiling at my phone like an idiot.

The Honeycrisp are two days from perfect. But I'm already ruined.

Chapter Four

PIPER

I've been at the orchard every day this week.

Three days. That's how long it took for my assignment to become an excuse. I still take notes. Still ask questions for the article. But my notebook has more observations about Emmett than about apple varieties, and the photos on my camera are mostly of him when he doesn't know I'm shooting.

Emmett working the press with his sleeves rolled up. Emmett laughing at something Mabel said when she brought pie out to the orchard because she decided he "needs feeding up." Emmett crouched next to a young tree, checking the graft site with fingers so gentle you'd think the branch could feel pain.

He kissed me three days ago and hasn't tried again. Hasn't pushed. Hasn't brought it up except in the way he stands a little closer now, lets his hand linger when he passes me a tool, watches me when he thinks I'm not looking.

Today we're picking the Honeycrisp. They're finally ready, and Emmett is vibrating with quiet excitement about it. He showed up at dawn. I showed up at eight with coffee from the general store, and the look on his face when I handed him the cup made my stomach flip.

"You didn't have to do that."

"Colt said you like it black."

"Colt doesn’t know what he’s talking about." But he's smiling. That dimple. I'm going to do something reckless about that dimple.

We pick for hours. He teaches me the twist-and-lift technique so the stem breaks clean. My arms ache. My sweater is dusted with bark and leaves. At some point I stopped caring about my appearance, and the freedom of that is almost disorienting.

By noon, we've filled twenty crates. Emmett loads them into the truck bed, and I help, and he doesn't tell me to be careful or treat the crates like they're too heavy. He just works next to me. Trusts me to carry my share.

Nobody has treated me like a capable person in longer than I want to admit.

"Lunch?" He wipes his forehead with his sleeve.

"Your stew again?"

"Chili today. New recipe."

We eat at his kitchen table with the windows open. The October air is cool and crisp and smells like fallen leaves. His chili has cornbread on the side, baked fresh this morning before dawn.