Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
After thirty minutes of nonstop touching Oakley and avoiding most of Aspen's personal questions over coffee, we finally escape the inn. With Oakley's hand in mine, we leave and head toward my truck.
“See, that wasn't so bad. She clearly wants to see you happy, so I don't know what you're so worried about.”
I scoff, releasing her grip. “If that’s true, she only wants to see me happy to relieve her guilt. She wanted a different life and kept trying to change me, but once she realized she couldn't, she broke it off. She made it clear I wasn’t enough. So trust me, her wanting me to move on is for her own conscience,” I tell her, then open the passenger door.
“Well, then it's her loss. The farm is beautiful. Who wouldn't want to live here?” She hops into the seat and buckles up.
I have the answer—my uptight, entitled ex-girlfriend who’s now engaged—but I keep that to myself.
“I'd gain fifty pounds from the pastries alone, but hell, it'd be worth it. Which makes me wonder, how do you keep it off? You work out or lift weights or something?”
“Nope.” I slam the door, then walk around the hood to the driver's side.
“Are you a runner?” she continues as I get in and crank the engine.
“I work on a farm, Oakley. An orchard. We're constantly on the go here, so any food I shove into my mouth gets burned off within hours.”
“Wow. Lucky for you, then. I prefer meditating over exercising. But when you paint for a living and all through school, the majority of your time is spent standing or sitting on your ass.”
“You could run?” I suggest, driving us to the hard cider operation building. It's prime apple harvest season, so their production is busy as hell. It’s actually the worst time of year to visit. “Probably be good for someone who likes to talk shit so much. Would give your mouth a break.”
She leans over and sucker punches me in the arm.
“The hell was that for?”
“Being a rude ass. I don't run my mouth. I speak the truth. There's a difference.”
“Well, can you speak to yourself?”
As I glance over, I catch her rolling her eyes and crossing her arms. She clearly isn't used to someone going head-to-head with her, but hell, if this is the only foreplay I get for the rest of my life, I'd die a happy man.
And that thought should scare me.
As soon as I park, I tell her to stay put. She scowls, and before she can say anything, I hop out of the truck and go to her side. Then I open the door and hold out my hand.
She furrows her brow and glares at my palm as if it's covered in mold. “What are you doing?”
“We have a reputation to uphold,” I remind her. “If people think we're dating, we need to keep up appearances everywhere we go. Never know who's watching, when my ex will randomly pop up, or who she's told.” It wouldn't surprise me if she has people watching us, either.
“And you opening the door and helping me out is something you'd do as a boyfriend?”
“It is,” I say firmly, then lower my voice and grind out between my teeth, “So slap on a smile and get your ass down.”
Our hands stay tangled together as we enter, and I give her a brief tour while introducing her to some of the employees. Then I talk about the process of making hard cider and how it's a big hit all year round.
“Where to now?” she asks when I lead her back to my truck. We get inside and make our way across the property.
“Apple picking wagon tour. The next one is in ten minutes.”
“How often do you have them?”
“This one runs twice a day during harvest season. During winter, people can buy tickets for horse-drawn sleigh rides.”
“You're joking. Sleigh rides? In an orchard?”
“Yeah. They get to learn about the history and enjoy the farm covered in a blanket of white snow but without the apple picking. Then they’ll stop for a warm treat and hot cocoa at the bakery.”
“Wow. Sounds incredible but cold. How long does this one take? I need to get back to painting,” she reminds me.
We turn toward the tour area. “It only takes forty-five minutes. You'll have plenty of time to play after.”
She blows out a breath as if she's stopping herself from going off on me. This isn't a bag of Skittles for me, either, but it's important to my grandmother that she gets the full Bennett Orchard experience.
We arrive just in time, and when I walk up into the wagon, I find only one spot left.
“Shit,” I mutter as Roy, the driver, announces everyone needs to be seated. The engine roars to life, and I know he's seconds from pulling onto the gravel road.