Page 46 of Love Story

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be.Eat.We can kiss more later.”

“We can?”He tucked my hair behind my ear.“I’d like that.”

He wolfed his dinner, and when he was done, I helped him repack the basket, but I wasn’t sure what would happen next.

“Do you want to see the chaos of a night shift?”he asked.

“I’d love to.”

He pulled up a stool, encouraged me to sit, and walked me through the process, explaining how sap was boiled down, pan by pan until it became syrup.

“Forty gallons of sap for one gallon of syrup,” I recalled.

“You remember that?”

I dipped my gaze because remembering facts was my thing, and my ex had teased me for all the—in his words—useless shit I knew.Sam wasn’t teasing me, though.Instead, he was pleased I’d recalled it as he handed me a small cup of hot syrup to taste.

“Blow on it for a bit,” he said, “then try it.”

Once it was cool enough, I sipped the liquid, and it was sweet and rich.“Wow!”

“Let me show you something else,” he said, calling over one of the workers to take his spot.Jesus—I’d forgotten we weren’t alone when we’d stood there kissing.At least where we were was a hidden corner, but still…

“No worries, boss,” the other man called over, and I swear I must’ve been scarlet.

“Okay, let’s do this,” Sam announced, grabbed a tray, took it outside to pack it with snow, came back in, and drizzled syrup over it in thin lines.“Sugar on snow,” he said with a grin, handing me a fork.

When I tried it, the syrup had hardened into chewy candy.It was sweet and sticky, and it was so good.Sam waited for my reaction, and I couldn’t help but grin.“Okay, this is amazing,” I said.

“Kids love it.”

“If my children have a sweet tooth like me, then they’d be here every day,” I said and grinned at him.

“You want children?”Sam sounded thoughtful.

“I’ve always said one day, yeah, but you know, I’m thirty-eight and time’s moving on.”

“There’s always time.”

“I’d have to meet the right guy first,” I said.

“True.I’ve always wanted kids—someone to carry on the work when I eventually stepped back.Or maybe not.Maybe they’d sell the place and use the money to chase their dreams.That’d be okay, too.The farm doesn’t have to stay in the family forever; not everyone wants to work a farm, but the idea of having children—of raising them here, teaching them how to tap the trees, showing them the grove where Samuel P.carved his initials—that feels right.”

“Wow,” was all I could say—that was some speech.I could imagine, one day, he’d have kids running through these woods, laughter echoing through the trees.The idea made me smile, even as a pang of longing hit me.Yeah, one day.“I bet you’d make a great dad.”

“I’d try.”

“I always thought I’d have kids.”

“Yeah?”

“Hmmm.”The idea had always been there, like a quiet undercurrent to the chaos of my life.Growing up, I’d imagine it sometimes—little moments like teaching someone how to ride a bike or sitting at a table covered in crayons and construction paper.Back then, it felt inevitable, like something that would happen when the time was right.

But then my career happened—and then more career.Each promotion, each late night at the office, each“next big project”kept pushing that dream further into the background.I told myself it wasn’t the right time, that once I reached a certain point, I could finally make space for everything else.

Except that point never came.Could Sam picture it—me, him, and some hypothetical kids running through the fields or climbing trees on his family farm?Or was I clinging to something I’d buried so deep I’d forgotten it was still there?

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