Page 49 of The Apple Cider Orchard

The banker’s warning from their last meeting echoed in Jack’s mind: ‘Sentiment doesn’t pay the bills, Flynn.’ He should be reviewing his pitch, mentally preparing for the tough questions the regional manager would inevitably ask.

Instead, he found himself cataloging the way sunlight caught in Molly’s dark hair, how her face lit up when she smiled, the graceful movement of her hands as she tucked the bread into her canvas bag. It was like she was already woven into the place; far too smoothly for a mere tourist.

The contradiction both rankled and intrigued him.

‘Who are you really?’ Jack whispered, too quietly for anyone to hear.

The rational part of him still harbored suspicions. Her local knowledge was very specific, her interest in the orchard’s heritage varieties too focused, her questions about the ancient oak too pertinent to be casual curiosity. Plus the coincidence of her arrival as Crest Beverages renewed their pressure campaign still nagged at him, despite her denials.

But watching Molly now – sunlight catching her profile as she savored the fresh bread, her expression one of simple contentment – Jack felt his suspicions warring with something stronger, something that tightened his chest and quickened his pulse in a way entirely unrelated to the impending bank meeting.

‘Admit it,’ Patrick had said only yesterday, his eyes twinkling with mischief, ‘you’re half in love with the girl already.’

Jack had denied it vehemently, listing all the reasons the American woman remained an enigma they shouldn’t really trust.

But Patrick’s knowing smile had only widened, his weathered hand patting Jack’s shoulder with infuriating condescension. ‘Keep telling yourself that, lad. Meanwhile, the rest of us have eyes.’

Now as he strode toward the meeting, Jack found his thoughts dividing like water around a stone – part-focused on the numbers he needed to present, part lingering on the image of Molly’s smile.

He straightened his shoulders, adjusted his grip on the folder, and took a deep breath that did little to calm the drumming of his heart. Whatever Molly Harris was hiding, whatever complicated feelings she stirred in him, would have to wait.

This meeting determined whether the trees his great-great-grandfather had planted would continue under Flynn stewardship, be carved up for development, or worse, corporate expansion.

The orchard came first. Always had.

Chapter 25

Later, after the morning market closed, Molly ambled back towards town, where locals now moved with renewed purpose through the square, setting up in advance of the Harvest Festival’s official opening night. Hanging colorful bunting between lampposts, arranging hay bales around a makeshift wooden stage and raising ladders to hang lights between the trees.

A group of older men carefully positioned a large banner proclaiming ‘Golden Valley Harvest Festival’ between a pair of ash trees above the central fountain. Their movements were deliberate, practiced – they’d clearly performed this ritual many times before. Teenagers balanced precariously on ladders, stringing fairy lights between the looming chestnut trees whose branches formed a natural canopy over the far corner of the square.

‘There you are!’ Eva’s voice cut through the gentle hubbub. She waved from the café entrance, her auburn curls escaping from beneath a bright-yellow bandana this time.

Molly threaded her way through the activity, returning greetings from villagers who now recognized her with friendly nods or quick smiles. Just a week ago, she’d been the outsider, just another tourist. Now, she was simply Molly – not one of them obviously, but no longer a complete stranger either.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, reaching Eva’s stall. ‘They’re busy at the hotel, and food service was a bit delayed.’

‘And here I thought you were just avoiding more work.’ Eva gestured toward a collection of galvanized buckets brimming with wildflowers and greenery. ‘The tables need centerpieces and I’ve volunteered your artistic hands.’

The Cherry Blossom Café’s outdoor tables had been rearranged into a winding formation that curved through the cobblestones like a serpentine river. White tablecloths fluttered in the gentle evening breeze, anchored by mismatched vintage crockery that would serve as place settings for tonight’s community gathering.

‘I’ve never claimed to be artistic,’ Molly protested, though she was already rolling up the sleeves of her sweater.

Eva snorted. ‘Your Insta says otherwise. Besides, I still have customers to look after, so someone’s got to make these tables look the part.’

Molly settled onto a wooden stool and drew a bucket closer. The mingled scent of the flowers rose to greet her – sweet honeysuckle, peppery marigolds, and something herbal and clean that reminded her of their Brooklyn garden. Without conscious thought, her fingers selected stems, grouping them by height and texture in a natural progression.

‘The festival proper always starts with the locals,’ Eva explained, watching Molly work while arranging some of her own. ‘Everyone contributes something from their harvest – Paudie brings chutney, Maurice does sausages, with Jack’s cider as the centerpiece, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Molly echoed, her tone carefully neutral despite the small flutter in her stomach at the mention of Jack’s name. Their almost-moment in the cider barn earlier this week still lingered in her mind.

She was dying to find out how Jack had fared at the bank that morning. Following his confession about the reality of the challenges the business was facing, she felt invested in Goldenridge’s success in a way that went beyond a simple media campaign. And had spent far more than ‘just an hour or two’, crouched over her laptop at the hotel working on suggested plans and projections.

This wasn’t just a media campaign, it almost felt like another mission. Which by rights should have made it easier to broach with Jack her true intentions, and the real reason she’d offered to help, but Molly couldn’t do it.

Not yet.

She was afraid to risk his and indeed Patrick’s disappointment by admitting that her offers of assistance weren’t entirely altruistic. In short, she was in too deep.