Page 5 of Falling for Cocky Cole
It's been almost a day since I sent that text telling him not to contact me again. One day of silence. He listened. He actually listened, which is what I wanted. Right?
I stare at the pyramids of apples before me, suddenly unsure. The Cole Carter I knew growing up never respected boundaries. The Cole who winked at every woman in Silvercreek, who turned flirting into an Olympic sport—that Cole would have texted anyway, would have charmed and pushed and persisted.
But he didn't.
The thought sends an unexpected pang through my chest. Maybe I was wrong not to listen to Mom's warnings. Maybe he really is the heartbreaker everyone says—get what he wants, then move on without a backward glance. One text, and I'm already history.
Damn it. I miss him. The admission feels like defeat. I miss his cocky smile and the way his voice gets raspy when he's close to my ear. I miss how his hands felt—burning against my skin, gentle but sure. I miss?—
Shit. I force my attention to the guitarist by the fountain. He's singing "Take Me Home, Country Roads," and a small crowd hums along. I join in under my breath, letting the familiar melody wash away thoughts of amber eyes and skilled hands.
"Good morning, Mrs. Walker."
The voice cuts through the market noise like a blade through butter. Deep, confident, unmistakable. I freeze, apple in hand, not daring to turn around.
"Cole Carter." My mother's tone is carefully neutral. "What brings you to our humble market? I don't recall seeing you here before."
I slowly pivot, praying my face isn't as red as it feels. Cole stands at the edge of our tent, looking unfairly good in a faded henley and jeans that fit exactly right. His chestnut hair is slightly tousled, like he ran his fingers through it on the drive over. When our eyes meet, his lips curve into that half-smile that makes my stomach flip.
"Just looking to buy some apples," he says, never breaking eye contact with me.
"Is that so?" Mom's eyes narrow to slits.
"Morning, Ivy," Cole says, ignoring my mother's skepticism.
I clear my throat, willing my voice to sound normal. "Hi. Didn't know you shopped at farmers' markets."
His smile widens. "There's a lot you don't know about me."
The air between us feels charged, loaded with the weight of unspoken words and shared memories. Mom's gaze darts between us, her expression calculating.
"What apples are you looking for?" she asks Cole, breaking the tension.
He hesitates. "What about some Fuji?"
Mom's eyebrow rises. "It's too early for Fujis. They won't be ready for another month."
"How come they've got them in Safeway year-round?" He genuinely looks confused.
Mom rolls her eyes. "Because those are from storage. They were harvested last year." Her tone takes on that teacher quality again. "The apples we're selling now are fresh from our farm."
Cole's mouth falls open. "Are you telling me I've been eating apples that have been in a fridge for a year?"
"Industrial cold storage, but yes." Mom shrugs.
"I wish I'd known that sooner."
"I wish you had too," Mom mutters, and I bite back a laugh.
Cole recovers quickly, nodding at our display. "So what have you got now? Gala, Jonathan..." He peers at the labels. "McIntosh, Honeycrisp, Red Delicious, Golden Delicious?"
"That's right." Mom's tone softens slightly—the way it always does when someone shows genuine interest in our farm. "Galas are sweet and crisp, good for eating fresh. Jonathans have more tartness—excellent for baking. McIntosh break down easily, so they're perfect for applesauce."
Cole listens with unexpected attention, nodding along. "And Honeycrisp? Those are the expensive ones at the store."
"For good reason," Mom says. "Juicy, sweet-tart balance, stays crisp for weeks. Best eating apple, in my opinion."
"Red Delicious?"
