Page 42 of The Apple Cider Orchard

She’d been careless, letting her guard down too easily in the comfortable atmosphere, allowing muscle memory to betray her.

‘So like I was saying the other day … you really should think about running orchard-to-bottle tours in summer,’ she said brightly, changing the subject. ‘People love seeing the process; from blossom to fruit to finished cider. Educational tourism is huge right now, especially with sustainability-minded travelers.’

The abrupt pivot wasn’t subtle, but Molly pressed on, professional expertise providing a shield. She turned to Jack. ‘I’d love to see the press house next if we have the time.’ She looked up, finding his face stilled, suspicion returning to his expression.

Her stomach dropped. She’d overcompensated, the marketing talk too forced after the natural flow of their earlier conversation. Jack was too perceptive not to notice, his earlier doubts about her clearly resurfacing.

While Patrick studied her too, his lined face was unreadable. Unlike his great-nephew’s open wariness, the older man’s expression held something more complex – curiosity, certainly, but also a thoughtfulness that suggested he was trying to fit pieces together in his mind.

Damn.

Molly kept her expression composed, years of corporate presentations helping her maintain a calm facade despite the turmoil beneath.

‘Most tours stick to the straightforward stuff,’ Jack observed. ‘Cider varieties, apple picking, pretty views for their photos. Whereas you seem particularly drawn to the older elements. The heritage varieties. The local songs. The old oak.’ He emphasized the last words slightly, the implication clear.

Molly felt heat rise in her cheeks despite her efforts to remain composed. She’d spent years in boardrooms facing down skeptical executives, but something about Jack Flynn’s direct gaze always made her usual poise falter.

Perhaps because with the others, she’d been representing clients, companies, products. Here, the deception was more personal, wrapped up in her promise to her grandmother and her own unexpected emotional response to this place and its people.

‘I’m always drawn to authenticity,’ she answered, meeting his gaze directly. ‘Especially in a world full of mass-produced experiences and corporate homogeneity.’ She hesitated, then added softly, ‘My grandmother valued that too.’

It wasn’t a lie, though it skirted the deeper truth she couldn’t yet reveal – not when she was supposed to be here to help them with marketing, as opposed to furthering her own agenda in getting access to the land. Hopefully if she played her cards right, that would come later. And Aoife had indeed valued authenticity, had instilled in Molly a respect for traditions and connections that ran deeper than commerce or convenience.

‘Your grandmother sounds like she had good taste,’ Patrick said finally, his voice gentler than before. ‘In songs and values.’

‘She did,’ Molly agreed simply.

The conversation had shifted into uncertain territory, the easy flow of earlier replaced by fresh caution.

Jack cleared his throat. ‘Time to call it a day, I think. I’ve a lot to get through.’ Much to her dismay, Molly realized she was being dismissed.

‘What about the cider barn? I’d really like to …’

‘Another day maybe.’

As he gathered their empty mugs, she couldn’t shake the feeling that her careless humming had changed something fundamental in how both men perceived her.

As Molly stood up, she caught Patrick studying her with particular intensity. Something in his expression – a flash of doubt, disappointment, even? – sent a flutter of apprehension through her.

The question was whether he would share those doubts with Jack, and whether Molly’s remaining fragile access to Goldenridge orchard – and the ancient oak that stood as its sentinel – would survive if he did.

Chapter 21

Much to Molly’s relief, Jack had arranged to meet her back at Goldenridge the following afternoon to continue the cider-making element of her tour. She’d been filming some of the eastern orchard rows for her campaign, when the first raindrops fell – initially tentative, then a sudden deluge.

‘This way,’ Jack called out over the heavy spattering of water on the leaves. They made a mad dash through the muddy lanes, arriving at the cider barn breathless and drenched despite the short distance.

Now, as raindrops drummed against the roof, Molly stood dripping on ancient floorboards, surrounded by the rich, tangy perfume of fermenting apples and centuries of Flynn family history.

‘Sorry about your hair,’ he said, looking rather unapologetic as he struck a match. The small flame illuminated his face from below, catching on stubble that had darkened his jaw since yesterday. He touched the fire to a lantern wick, and warm amber light bloomed outward, pushing back the shadows of the building’s cavernous interior.

Molly winced. ‘Seems like it’s kind of a theme around here.’ She ran her fingers through her sodden ponytail, freeing her hair from its elastic to help dry it easier. The barn air was cool and heavy with fermentation scents that reminded her of sourdough, wine cellars and something distinctly apple-sweet. But her damp clothing in the colder air made her shiver involuntarily.

‘Here.’ Jack shrugged out of his leather jacket – miraculously barely damp – and offered it with an awkward thrust of his arm. The gesture surprised her more than the rain had.

‘Thanks.’ She slipped it over her shoulders, immediately enveloped in a warmth that carried subtle notes of woodsmoke and male skin. The sleeves hung past her fingertips and she rolled them back, feeling oddly small within the leather cocoon. ‘So this is where the magic happens …’

Jack glanced around the barn as if seeing it through her eyes – the rows of oak barrels lining the walls, the gleaming copper of the press catching the lantern light. ‘Not magic,’ he corrected. ‘Just patience and time.’