Page 11 of Fall Surprises
"Getting there," he murmured.
"At least you have real seasons here," I offered, trying to lighten the moment. "Fall in California isn't exactly the same. I mean, the beaches are nice, but you don't get this." I gestured to the mountains, the changing leaves, the crisp air containing the smell of wood smoke.
"No," he agreed, his smile returning. "Though I do miss the ocean sometimes. The sound of waves, the tide rolling in and out. Different kind of beautiful."
We reached for the same apple. Our hands collided. We both pulled back.
"Sorry," I said.
"You take it." He gestured, his hand lingering near mine for a beat too long.
After we'd filled our baskets to overflowing with different varieties—McIntosh for applesauce, Cortlands for salads, Honeycrisps for eating fresh—we headed toward the barn. Thescent of cinnamon and fried dough made my stomach rumble loud enough for Gus to hear.
"Come on," he said, grinning. "We both skipped breakfast. Time to fix that."
The barn's interior was warm and welcoming, strings of lights crisscrossing the ceiling and hay bales arranged as seating. Vintage farm tools hung on the walls—rusted saws and ancient scythes arranged like art. A small counter sold fresh cider, apple donuts, and other treats. We ordered hot cider and a box of donuts fresh from the fryer, still warm and coated in cinnamon sugar.
We found a spot on a hay bale by the window. Our thighs pressed together in the small space. Our body heat combined against the cool air drifting through cracks in the barn walls. The cider was perfect—spiced with cinnamon and cloves, sweet but not too sweet. I wrapped my hands around the cup, savoring the warmth.
"This is incredible," I said after my first sip.
"Wait until you try the donuts." He held out the box, and I selected one that was practically steaming.
The first bite was pure heaven—crispy exterior giving way to soft, warm dough, the cinnamon sugar coating my lips. I couldn't suppress a satisfied hum.
When I opened my eyes, Gus was watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
"Good?" His voice was lower than normal.
"So good."
"You've got—" He reached toward my face, his hand hovering near my mouth. "Foam. From the cider."
My heart kicked up. I waited for him to wipe it away, wanted him to, but instead he pulled back, gesturing to his own upper lip.
"Right there."
Heat flooded my cheeks as I swiped at my mouth with a napkin. "Thanks."
"No problem."
We ate without speaking for a moment, but the silence felt comfortable now. Charged with awareness, yes, but not awkward. His shoulder pressed against mine. The warmth of him seeped through my layers. I should move over, give us more space, but I didn't want to.
"I should apologize properly," I said finally. "For what I said earlier. About you hiding, about being afraid of failure. I don't know your story, and I had no right to judge."
"You weren't entirely wrong." He stared into his cider. "I am hiding, in a way. Licking my wounds. Trying to figure out who I am without the restaurant, without the reputation I built. It's easier here where no one knows about my failure."
"It's not failure to try and have it not work out."
"Even when it implodes spectacularly? When you lose everything you built because you trusted the wrong person?"
Pain roughened his voice. I understood suddenly that his issues with control, with strangers in his space, came from a place of betrayal.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "Whatever happened, I'm sorry you went through it."
He looked at me then, his eyebrows rising slightly. "Thanks."
We finished our cider and donuts, then loaded the baskets of apples into his truck. I stopped at the farm stand to buy several branches of the vibrant maple leaves, the woman wrapping them carefully in brown paper. The drive back was easier, conversation flowing more naturally as he pointed out landmarks and told me about Wintervale's history. The way his face lit up talking about the town, I could tell he'd fallen in love with this place.
