Page 14 of The Apple Cider Orchard

‘You should probably claim it,’ he said, his breath warm against her cheek. ‘Since you started the great escape in the first place.’

‘Seems only fair.’ She picked up the apple, cradling it in her palm.

‘That’s it then,’ he said as she placed the final apple back on the cart. ‘Crisis averted.’

Molly became aware again of her soaked clothes, her exhaustion, the hotel she still needed to find. Yet she found herself reluctant to end this unexpected interlude. ‘Again, I really am sorry about crashing into your cart.’

‘No harm done,’ he said, running a hand through his wet hair in a gesture that seemed unconscious, but drew her attention to the strong line of his forearm where his sleeve had pushed up. ‘Apples are tough, and they’ve definitely survived worse.’ He glanced toward his truck, then back at her, his expression shifting toward something more practical. ‘You’re looking for the Glen Arms, is it? It’s that way. Can’t miss it – big stone building with ivy all over the front.’

Faintly disappointed at the dismissal, Molly nodded and gripped her suitcase handle. But before she moved away, he reached into his cart and selected a fresh apple, its skin still gleaming with raindrops like tiny jewels.

‘Here,’ he said, extending it toward her. ‘Fresh from Goldenridge this morning.’

Molly’s head snapped up, eyes suddenly intent on his face. ‘As in Goldenridge Orchard?’

‘You’ve heard of it?’ he asked, surprised.

‘Yes, I—’ She paused, something shifting in her memory. ‘A local landmark, isn’t it?’

He studied her more carefully now, his gaze landing on her laptop case, previous warmth cooling slightly. ‘Not especially. Small operation. Family-run.’

‘Do you work there?’

‘You could say that.’ He began repositioning his cart, checking that the wheels were properly aligned on the uneven cobblestones.

‘With the old cider press and the row of ancient trees along the western border?’ Molly continued speaking, her voice tinged with wonder.

Aoife’s old stories had painted such a vivid picture of the orchard that Molly felt as if she’d walked its rows of apple trees herself, could almost smell the sweet-tart scent of fruit ripening in the sun, could nearly taste the crisp cider that her grandmother had claimed was like drinking autumn itself.

He looked up sharply, dark eyes narrowing suddenly. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Well, it’s quite famous around here, isn’t it?’

He studied her face with newfound intensity. ‘Not really,’ he said shortly. ‘Unless you’re in the apple business.’

His posture had changed, the easy camaraderie of moments ago replaced by something far more guarded.

‘I’m not.’ Molly laughed lightly. ‘My grandmother used to talk about it.’

‘Your grandmother’s from around here?’

‘Yes,’ Molly confirmed.

‘What’s her name?’ he asked, his tone carefully casual, but his eyes watchful.

Molly hesitated. She wasn’t ready to share her reasons for being here with a complete stranger, or anyone as yet. Not until she’d had time to settle, get the lay of the land, as it were. ‘Brennan,’ she said simply.

Something flickered across his face – recognition, perhaps, or calculation maybe? ‘Very few Brennans around here,’ he said neutrally. He moved to the front of his cart, though his movements had lost their earlier ease, becoming more deliberate, more contained.

‘Do they still make that cider?’ Molly asked, genuinely curious. ‘The one aged in oak barrels? Sun something …’

He paused, his back to her. ‘Sunrise,’ he stated flatly, turning then.

Molly could immediately tell that for some reason this, in particular, bothered him. ‘Like I said, my grandmother—’

‘Must know our orchard very well indeed,’ he interrupted, his expression hardening. ‘Well enough to know about a cider we haven’t produced commercially in over thirty years.’

When he turned back, his expression had closed completely. The man who had just flirted with her, who had tossed her an apple with that devilish half-smile, had vanished. In his place, stood someone wary and remote, regarding her with the careful assessment of a man who’d been proven right about something unpleasant.