Page 40 of The Apple Cider Orchard

‘The skin should have slight resistance,’ he found himself saying, his voice dropping lower as she took the fruit. ‘Then give way to dense, aromatic flesh.’

Molly’s eyes met his, something unspoken passing between them. The orchard seemed to fall away, leaving only this moment, this connection humming in the space between their bodies.

He was suddenly acutely aware of how alone they were among the trees, how the dappled sunlight caught in her dark hair, how her green eyes sparkled in the light. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and for one disorienting moment, he imagined closing the distance between them, tasting the sweetness he somehow knew would be there.

The thought jolted him back to reality. This was madness. She was here on holiday – carrying out a silly volunteer project before returning to her real job in New York. And he was what? Mooning over her like some lovesick teenager because she’d asked good questions about apple varieties and known an old superstition about hawthorn trees?

Jack stepped back abruptly, his boot crushing a fallen apple with a wet sound that broke the spell. ‘We should move on,’ he said, his voice deliberately brisk.

Confusion flickered across Molly’s face, quickly replaced by a neutral professionalism that made him feel both relieved and oddly bereft. ‘Of course,’ she agreed, tucking the apple he’d given her into her pocket. ‘Lead the way.’

The comfortable ease they’d developed had vanished, replaced by a prickling awareness that made the back of Jack’s neck burn. He strode ahead, shoulders rigid with embarrassment at his momentary lapse in judgment.

Behind him, Molly followed in silence, the only sound the continued crunch of leaves beneath their feet and the whisper of the breeze through the apple-laden branches.

The morning wasn’t yet half over, and already Jack was struggling to remember why he’d agreed to this nonsensical arrangement in the first place.

Chapter 20

Molly followed Jack’s stiff-shouldered figure through the orchard rows, the warmth of their earlier connection rapidly cooling in the autumn air.

Something had shifted between them among the apple trees just now – a moment of unexpected intimacy that had clearly rattled him. Now he moved with deliberate haste, putting physical distance between them as if to compensate for that brief, electric moment when his fingers had brushed against her hair.

‘Time for a break,’ he muttered, not quite meeting her eyes. ‘Tea OK for you?’

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak just yet. The moment had affected her too, more than she cared to admit, leaving her pulse fluttering in a way that complicated her already complex reasons for being in Golden Valley. This wasn’t part of the plan – this deepening awareness of Jack Flynn as more than an obstacle.

They walked in silence along a narrow path that curved away from the main orchard, winding between a row of native trees whose massive trunks dwarfed the apple varieties they’d been examining. The path opened onto a small clearing where a small cottage stood, nestled against the hillside as if it had grown from the earth itself.

The cottage was smaller than she’d imagined, built of weathered gray stone with a slate roof turned silvery with age. Climbing roses, now past their prime but still bearing the occasional late bloom, framed the doorway in a tangle of woody stems. The front garden was a study in practical beauty – no manicured lawns or fussy ornamentals, but neat beds of herbs interspersed with late-blooming wildflowers in shades of purple and gold.

Apple trees, unsurprisingly, dominated one side of the clearing, their branches extending protectively over the cottage roof. What struck Molly most was how seamlessly the dwelling fit its surroundings. Unlike the jarring newness of tourist cottages she’d seen just outside the village, with their too-perfect thatching and chocolate-box charm, this home bore the patina of genuine history.

It belonged here, as did he.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Jack said, moving toward the entrance. ‘Won’t be long.’

He disappeared inside, the door closing behind him with a soft thud that made it clear she wasn’t being invited to follow. The exclusion stung slightly, though Molly understood it. His home represented another boundary, another level of intimacy he wasn’t prepared to cross. She was still trying to figure out how she should broach the subject of the oak tree and why she needed access to it. Maybe over the shared warm drink?

Molly approached a small workbench that stood against one wall of the cottage. Tools hung in neat rows – pruning shears in graduated sizes, grafting knives with worn handles, coils of wire and twine. Each implement had its designated place, speaking to Jack’s methodical nature. Yet there was artistry here too – a half-carved piece of wood sat on the bench beside a whittling knife, the wood grain exposed in gentle curves that captured the fruit’s essence.

‘Good likeness, isn’t it?’

The voice startled her. Molly turned to find Patrick emerging from around the corner of a nearby barn, his weathered face creasing into a smile. He moved toward her with unhurried steps, his gait betraying the slight stiffness of age managed with dignity. One hand rested lightly on a walking stick – not leaning heavily, but using it for balance as he navigated the uneven ground.

‘Your great-nephew is talented,’ she replied, gesturing toward the carving. ‘In more ways than one.’

‘That he is.’ Patrick’s eyes, bright and alert in his time-worn face, studied her again with undisguised interest. ‘Though he’d never admit to it. Especially not the artistic bit.’

He reached her side, his movements deliberate but not frail. Yet there was nothing diminished about Patrick Flynn. His handshake was firm, his gaze clear and perceptive. He stood straight despite the subtle curve of age in his shoulders, and when he smiled, years fell away from his face.

‘I hear you’ve been drafted into service by our Tidy Towns committee,’ he said, his voice carrying the melodic lilt of rural Ireland softened by age into a gentle burr. ‘The village is buzzing about this New York marketing whizz who’s going to put us on the map.’

Molly laughed softly, tucking her hair behind her ear. ‘We were both basically strong-armed into it,’ she admitted. ‘Your nephew more than I.’

Patrick’s eyes twinkled knowingly as he replied, ‘Some things are meant to be.’

There was something in his tone that made Molly wonder if he was referring to more than just the marketing arrangement. A hint of mischief, perhaps, or deeper knowledge. His gaze, still sharp despite the years that had faded his hair color to silver, seemed to look right through her oh-so-casual persona.