Page 16 of Falling for Cocky Cole
Yet there's something different about her now. She drops an apple, fumbles with the knife, keeps glancing at me when she thinks I'm not looking. I'm making her nervous, and I kind of like it.
When she starts working the press, I step closer, covering her hand with mine on the handle.
"You need to keep it steady," I tell her what I learned just an hour ago, my chest nearly touching her back. "If you go too fast, you'll make a mess."
She turns her head, and suddenly our faces are inches apart. I can see the gold flecks in her blue eyes, and smell the apple on her breath.
"I've been doing this since ninth grade, Cole," she says, rolling her eyes and pulling her hand away from mine.
"Sorry," I grin, stepping back. "Thought you might have forgotten after years of city living."
"You don't forget how to use a cider press," she says, turning the handle with expert precision. "It's like riding a bicycle."
I watch the amber juice flow from the press into the waiting bucket. "Speaking of bicycles," I say, remembering something. "You used to have a blue one, right? You rode it everywhere one summer."
Ivy looks surprised. "You remember that?"
"Of course. You loved that thing. Birthday present from your dad, wasn't it?"
A smile spreads across her face. "Yeah, it was. I can't believe you remember."
"I notice things," I say simply. "Do you still have it?"
"It's probably in the shed somewhere."
"We should go biking sometime," I suggest, taking my turn at the press. The rhythm of the work is hypnotic—press down, turn, release. Press down, turn, release. "I've got a trail bike. There are some beautiful routes around Carter Ridge."
"That sounds... nice," she says, and I can tell she means it.
We fall into a comfortable silence, working together. There's something sensual about the whole process—the sweet smell of the apples, the juice running over the edges of the press, the repeated motion of the handle. With each turn, I'm aware of Ivy next to me, of her breath, of the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
"So," I say after a while, "what's your plan? For the future, I mean."
She looks up, surprised by the question. "I don't know, honestly. I'm not really... planning right now."
"No plan is a plan too," I say.
She shakes her head. "It's not like that. I just..." She sighs. "I don't want to set myself up to fail again."
I stop working and look at her directly. "You didn't fail, Ivy."
"I came back to my hometown with my tail between my legs after my job fell apart. That's not exactly success."
"You graduated from university and got a design job in Portland. Do you know how many people in Silvercreek never make it out? I've always been proud of you for going so far."
Her eyes meet mine, and I see the struggle there, the tears she's holding back. "Thanks, Cole."
I mean every word. She has no idea how often I've thought about her over the years, wondering what she was doing, if she was happy, if she'd ever come back.
"Take your time to figure things out," I tell her, resuming our work. "No rush. You'll always have a place here in Silvercreek." I hesitate, then add, "You can be Emily's nanny as long as you want. Or... you could work for Carter Ridge."
Her eyebrows lift. "What?"
"We could use a creative designer for our marketing. Brochures, fliers, welcome packets, website, social media—the whole thing. If you're interested, I can talk to my brothers about it."
She stares at me, clearly trying to determine if I'm serious. "Are you just saying that because..."
"Because what?" I ask, genuinely curious.
