by Liora Blake
I clear my throat and wait for her gaze to find mine before answering her question.
“Probably.”
“That’s what I thought. Moving on, then.”
Jesus, how long has it been since someone took an answer of mine at face value? I’ve spent too many years enduring a litany of follow-up questions—from coaches and sportscasters, trainers and agents—that I almost don’t know how to react when Whitney says nothing else.
She takes another sip of her tea and peers at me from over the rim of her mug, with nothing but an easy expression covering her face. Tension starts to release inside me, unraveling from every rib bone and tendon that lines my chest cavity, leaving behind enough space that I can breathe deeply for the first time in days.
Hunt told me to get lost somewhere. Lost never felt so good.
6
(Whitney)
Silence stretches around us for at least five minutes. Five long, self-conscious minutes that mimic the itchy feeling of a first date gone awry.
Cooper busies his gaze, gawking about at every countertop, shelf, and knickknack there is in my kitchen. He eventually turns and looks over his shoulder into my living room. At what, I don’t know. I live here, so taking inventory of my hand-me-down furniture and the shabby cabinetry isn’t exactly a new, or pleasurable, endeavor.
The only new vista in my world is sitting across from me, dwarfing my kitchen chair with his big body. Despite having stood next to him and had the shadow of his frame right behind me, Cooper looks unmanageably large right now. So much so that staring for too long leaves me feeling a little dazed. But, still, I focus for as long as I can. Because Cooper Lowry is definitely worth looking at—grumpy attitude, curt conversation, and all.
He has this strong jawline, a tired description I never particularly understood until now. Apparently, a strong jawline is considered attractive because on the right guy, it can inspire a series of delicious images. Including one where your cheeks and lips become a little chafed from rubbing across the few days’ worth of very manly scruff that covers his face, his jaw set in a seemingly perpetual clench as you do, while you venture to figure out how to relax him properly.
“You give tours?”
I was still pondering the merits of the aforementioned jawline, so I didn’t notice Cooper turn his attention my way. The fog clears only enough for me to recognize that he’s talking, but I don’t have a clue what he just said. I look up at the space above his head, practically at the ceiling, to save face.
“What?”
“Tours.” He pauses, then lowers his voice to match the deliberate delivery of his next words. “Do you give tours?”
Tours? What is he babbling about? I was busy touring the contours of his face with my distractible mind and the only thing I might offer up at this moment is a tour of my lips against his scruff.
All of which has to become obvious when I respond, because my voice comes out husky and breathy.
“Tours of what?”
The combination of my cable-after-dark voice and the way my eyes are unfocusedly glassy turns Cooper’s expression both surprised and smug. Then he actually widens his stance in the chair, slouching down incrementally and letting his legs open slightly more.
The whole move has an inviting arrogance to it. As if he’s making room for me, ensuring that when I inevitably leap onto his lap I’ll have a nice, wide, solid place to land. Which suddenly seems like a very bad thing, a ridiculous notion best left in fantasyland, because I probably can’t handle all of that.
Every other man I’ve ever been with has been half of what Cooper is. We’re talking stereotypical hippie types: militant environmentalists who aren’t afraid of a hunger strike, fanatical vegans who sometimes just forget to eat, and guys who happily make their homes in remote yurts that are only accessible by snowshoe—every one of them skinny and lanky, more bone than brawn. Weightlifting, or football, or whatever crazy tree trunk–tossing workout it is that has shaped Cooper’s body, are all things that would be virtually impossible for my exes.
When Cooper looks directly at me and shifts his posture again, putting all the categorically male areas of his body center-frame, I’m positive. He’s too much. Just too damn much for my decidedly girly insides and my muddled brain to take.
“Tours of the orchard. This is a business, right? I came here for some apple butter, after all. Be nice to see how it’s produced.”
Oh. Yes. The orchard, of course. My failing little enterprise, the one I had the pleasure of claiming amnesiac ignorance of during the last hour or so since Cooper bumbled his way into my kitchen. The discouraging parts of my life descend in a downpour at his request. Because no matter how kissable his jawline is, that’s not enough to make reality go away.
I sit up straighter in my chair and blink twice to clear away the last of my indulgent daydreaming.
“You would officially be the first person to take a tour of my orchard. So don’t get carried away asking a bunch of questions or wanting to know where the gift shop is.”
“No gift shop? That sucks. I’m big on commemorative Tshirts. I was hoping for one with some pun about plucking ripe fruit or handling bad apples. Maybe something about Eve and biting into her apple, shit like that.”
When I laugh, Cooper actually smiles. A full-on, gorgeous smile. None of the half-grins and lip twitches he’s previously offered. And it’s a hundred times more potent than his jawline, his scruff, or his enticing manspreading. Pretty sure a girl might expire from just trying to get Cooper to smile like that as often as possible.
“There is a root cellar where I store the apple butter I’ve canned.” I stand up and move to grab my hoodie off the tabletop. “If you want, we can pretend it’s a gift shop. I’ll act like I’m opening it up special, just for you. You know, the VIP kind of treatment I’m sure you’re used to.”
Behind me, he gives a soft chuckle, and I have to stop myself from turning around to see if the smile is there again. I force my feet to keep moving toward the front door, where I pull on my boots. Next to my set are Cooper’s, a pair of broken-in Danners with fraying laces—shoes I would more likely assume belonged to one of the many oil company fracking guys who live and work in the valley these days than a pro football player. Even one who also happens to know a decent amount about proper canning procedures.
Cooper’s feet appear in my sight line, those garish Texas-themed socks on display, and I stifle a laugh.
“Nice socks, by the way.”
“Don’t hate. My mom gave me these socks. It’s a Texas thing. We’re compelled to put the lone star emblem on anything we can. Pot holders, can koozies, hats, bedding, towels, underwear, socks, you name it.”
“Do you own all of those things you just listed? With the Texas thing on there?”
He looks away for a moment and thinks. “All except the can koozie. I’m a bottle guy. No need; it would just be a waste.”
“Sure. Because the other stuff isn’t a waste at all. Everyone needs a pot holder with that emblazoned on there.”
“Not everyone. Just people from Texas.” Cooper goes to lace up his boots and cranes his head to survey the living room again. “Your house is nice. I like these old farmhouses with the big front porches. And the décor is …”
He falters a bit and his brow line does a series of odd contortions. Immediately, I can tell he’s summoning up an attempt at a bogus nicety as he gathers his thoughts.
“Interesting,” he finally adds.
It’s hard to decide if the fact that he sucks at giving bullshit is a good thing or not. On one hand, who doesn’t like a guy that seems practically incapable of lying? On the other, sometimes we women depend on those artfully finessed answers that smart men provide when we ask loaded questions about delicate things. Topics that include our bodies, our emotional states, and the hierarchy of our importance in their lives. A guy who can’t fib his way through that stuff without looking physically tortured could be tough to keep around.
I wait for his reaction, with a better view now, because he’s standing upright and waiting for me to finish lacing up my shoes.
Another round of weird face acrobatics ensues before he nearly chokes on one word. “Yes.”
Dropping onto my rear end and letting my knees come up toward my chest, I give in to a jaded-sounding chuckle and drop my head lazily into my palms.
“Promise you won’t try to feed me a line ever again. It’s so painful to watch when you try to do that.”
I sigh and look up at him. “Nearly all of the stuff in this house was here when I bought it. An old lady lived here before and she was the kind of woman who put plastic covers on the furniture, so everything was in great condition. Her family was happy to include it in the sale and I didn’t move here with a ton of household stuff, so it worked out. So my style is actually more scavenger and opportunist than anything.”
He lets out a pent-up exhale and extends his arm my way, offering his hand to help me up off the floor.
“Thank God. Vintage is one thing, but all those Hummel figurines and the Norman Rockwell plates on the walls are too fucking much. I don’t care how gorgeous you are, if you honestly collected all that crap yourself, it would have killed it for me. No amount of hotness could outweigh that kind of crazy.”
I take his hand but duck my face at the same time, hiding my reaction to hearing the flatteries buried in his not–particularly suave pronouncement. We step outside where the weather has turned significantly colder since this morning. The swell of fresh, cool air is a blessing because it quickly returns my cheeks to their normal color.
Dense moisture hovers about and low clouds have settled in the distance, all sure signs that snow is coming. And when it hits, that will mean this season is officially over. I used to welcome the first frost—Mother Nature’s way of providing a reason to rest—but this year, I’d love it to hold off for a few more weeks.
When I look across the wide dirt driveway, where rows of trees fan out toward the horizon, my land looks almost new to me. For so long, I’ve worked this orchard with my eyes focused only on what was directly in front of me. Looking for the first spring buds, thinning small fruit, cursing at the evidence of codling moth worms on my fruit. I rarely looked up to see beyond those tiny things and now that I do, I realize that losing this place would hurt in so many ways. The regret alone might kill me, not to mention the sucker punch that would come with trying to figure out how to start over.
After my dad died, I took care of settling his limited estate and once that was done, the instinct to wander was as strong as it always has been. Except this time I was running away from the unpredictability that I usually drove headfirst toward, because his death meant I was suddenly without the soft place to land that I’d always counted on. This orchard, this land, is where I found my grown-up self and left behind the girl who used to think that a permanent address should only come with a headstone. Whether it was grief or simple maturity, I don’t know—but I do know that I’d give anything to have another shot at making this work.
“This place is amazing.”
Cooper’s body nearly presses to the back of mine when he speaks and every one of my senses registers the intimacy. Between us, there is the scent of spiced sweetness, the pear chutney that permeates our clothes, masked only by the coconut oil I slather on my skin and whatever it is that Cooper rolls around in to make him smell so nice. AstroTurf? Sweat? Other football players?
Each of us lets out a slow exhale and the chilly air means I can see the evidence in front of me, a reminder of how near his face is to mine. Close enough for hijinks. Close enough to turn this tour into something more interesting and satisfying.
Before I can attempt some utterly feminine move that might make this concept clear to him, he’s walking away, toward the orchard rows. He turns to look over his shoulder, while pointing ahead of him.
“This way?”
Fine. A tour. He seems dead set on the damn thing. Maybe, despite his talk about my being unfortunately not naked and tossing the words gorgeous and hotness around, he isn’t into the idea of our just giving up our clothes and going carnal on each other. Maybe he’s just one of those guys who likes getting a woman worked up, even when they have no interest in having anything stroked other than their egos. A shame, really. I may not be able to handle him, but I’ve also never shied away from a new adventure.
Cooper continues forward at a slow gait, with his head up, his eyes focused straight ahead, and his shoulders back—a posture that looks so comfortable on him, I’d be surprised if he ever takes on a task in any other way. We come to a stop at the end of a row and I reach up to trim a spindly low-hanging limb on one of the Braeburn trees, using a small set of hand shears from my pocket. The leaves have started to drop, making any unproductive branches like this one more obvious.
“You should get a goat.” Cooper waves his hand toward the ground around his feet.
“Why would I want or need a goat?”
Cooper points to the space between the trees, where a soft thatch of yarrow is growing.
“Keeps the weeds down. I read this article about it. Goats would eat this stuff and you wouldn’t have to mow it.”
“That’s a cover crop.” I move closer and slide a hand over one of the tallest spots on the plant. “Yarrow is good for attracting the right kind of bugs. Ladybugs and lacewings love it—they’re good bugs. And they love eating aphids and mites—bad bugs that want to get on my fruit.”
“Yarrow.” Cooper repeats the word as if he’s committing it to some important part of his brain, filing it away for later use. “I’m guessing you’re doing the organic thing, then, right?”
“The organic ‘thing’? Sounds like some big-oil-Texas-boy judgment in there with the way you say it. But, yes, I am doing the organic thing.”
Moving to another tree, I hand-thin a few more branches and toss them on the ground. “I’m nowhere near certified, but I’m keeping everything organic and biodynamic.”
“Biodynamic.” Again, he rolls the word around, thoughtfully. He looks over to me. “I’m not a big-oil Texas boy, just so you know. I’m a cattle-ranch kind of Texas boy. But I definitely picked up on the judgment in what you said.”
“Some sort of enormous feedlot operation? That would explain the way you said ‘organic thing.’ It would also explain that truck of yours, parked in my driveway. That shiny beast shouts big something.”
Cooper gives a mocking, withering lift of his brows and I realize how much it sounds like I’m about to chain myself to one of these trees, naked, while chanting ELF slogans at him. I mumble a vague apology but it sounds half-hearted to my own ears, so I try again. Louder and clearer, to make it stick. Cooper traces one of his hands over the yarrow, threading it through his open fingers.
“Not an enormous feedlot operation. Try a sixth-generation family-run cattle ranch. But even a bunch of farm boys who like their trucks big and shiny understand about keeping things greener. We’re not some pack of idiots running around claiming climate change is a myth. So I wasn’t judging. I was asking.”
He pauses, and I clip another branch off with a sharp snap of my shears. Cooper steps closer and leans in to inspect the cut mark.
“In the spirit of not making more blind assumptions about each other, maybe you could explain why in the hell you keep cutting off those perfectly good tree limbs?”
I gather a handful of the twigs up and break them down into small sections.
“I’m thinning a few unproductive limbs. The curse of being a fruit farmer is that you can’t walk down a tree row without seeing something that needs to be done.” I hold up one of the twigs. “These little sections I’ll use to graft—”
The words next year are nearly out of my mouth before I remember how unlikely that may be. I shove the twigs into the front center pocket on my overalls and cas
t my eyes over Cooper’s shoulder.
“—I’ll use them to graft. At some point.”
The little pieces are tall enough that the tips are only an inch or two away from the bare skin exposed on my chest, above the neckline of my tank top. When I shift my focus to Cooper again, he’s watching me, assessing my expression. His forehead creases for a moment, and then he steps near enough to reach for one of the grafting twigs. When he does, his thumb grazes just above the placket of my overalls and my skin immediately becomes a strange mix of frigid and scorching.
He notes my reaction, the way I don’t pull away or flinch. His next touch feels wildly intentional, thumb skating lazily until his stroke meets the upper valley between my breasts. I take a deep inhale and hold it for a few beats. That move drives all the needy, hot-cold parts of my flesh closer to his touch. If I hold my breath much longer, I’m bound to get light-headed, but the second I release that inevitable exhale, Cooper will be incrementally farther away and I’m not quite ready for that—just a few more seconds should do it, long enough for me to properly savor every moment of his fingers exploring my skin.
Screw it—maybe if I pass out, he’ll have to perform some sort of first aid. With his mouth. Or his hands, all ten fingers doing whatever it takes to revive me. All I know is that, somehow, in the last two minutes we went from launching barbs—You’re a hippie! Yeah, well, you’re a big-oil earth killer!—to … hell, I don’t know what to call it … just this.
My body demands that I breathe, so I give in and let out a painfully slow exhale. Cooper plucks out one of the twigs.
“Grafting is where you take and push one piece into the other, right? Even if they’re from totally different trees, even if it makes no sense. But if you make sure they stay joined up for long enough, let them work into each other, eventually they come together.”
He inspects the little piece of wood before looking to me, the same heated and frustrated expression on his face as when he first arrived. I nod slowly. If he weren’t looking at me like that, I would laugh hysterically, because he’s managed to turn fruit grafting talk into a vaguely dirty topic and I can’t tell if it’s on purpose or not. I should be rolling my eyes, scoffing, or generally telling him to give up this corny attempt to eroticize the act of shunting two twigs together.