The familiar old black cat leapt from one of the raised beds and picked his way through the apples before darting off into the woods.
"You're so helpful," I called after him.
I made my way back toward the house and grabbed the supplies I'd abandoned before crossing into Linden's place. He was catching up on paperwork this afternoon and I knew he'd welcome a break from that to investigate my apple problem.
When I entered from the deck, I had the pleasure of watching as the scowl he'd aimed at the documents in front of him melted into a familiar smile. I couldn't explain why that quick moment of blown-open honesty warmed me more than any words or kisses ever could but I felt that heat in my cheeks, my hands, the back of my neck.
"That didn't take long," he said, holding a hand out to me.
I knew he intended to draw me into his lap but I didn't have time for that. "There are apples. All over the backyard. And they're, like, rotting."
He bobbed his head as he beckoned me closer, unsatisfied with my position on the opposite side of the table. "From the trees, I'd imagine."
"Which trees?"
"The apple trees."
I peered at him. "Where are there apple trees nearby?"
Linden dropped his outstretched hand as he laughed. "They're in your yard, Peach."
"Where?"
"In the back," he said, pushing to his feet. "Four, maybe five of them? They're fairly young. Less than ten years old, I think." He rounded the table and hooked his fingers inside the waistband of my leggings, yanking me up against him. "Sometimes you are too far away from me."
"What do I do about the apples?"
"Not letting that go, are you?"
"I just discovered I have an orchard, Linden. I can't let that go. What do I do about all the apples? Isn't it a problem to leave them there?"
He kissed the top of my head and patted my backside. "Sit down. The apples can wait a minute."
He pulled out a chair and shoved me into it as sweetly as anyone could. I grinned in spite of myself. I didn't mind a good shove when it was Linden doing the shoving. I wouldn't mind him pushing and pulling me around for the next six months. Or longer.
I heard him rustling in the cabinets and then the fridge as I said, "How is it that I didn't notice I had apple trees until now?"
"I don't know what to tell you other than you are extremely gifted with many complex things, and less gifted with a few basic things."
"Are you trying to say I'm some kind of savant who can't change a light bulb?"
"I'm saying you're some kind of savant who can't exit a rotary."
"I can, it just takes me a few tries."
"I know, babe. I know. It's what makes you special—and completely unreliable with the most random things." I heard him shaking the milk carton over my shoulder. "Wait a second. You didn't have any coffee this morning."
"Hmm?"
"The coffee. You were in the shower when I filled up before leaving for my appointment in Weymouth. You didn't drink any today."
I glanced up at him. "Oh. Yeah. I must've forgotten. I got distracted with emails."
Linden set the milk down as he leveled me with a stern stare. "You haven't touched the clementine marmalade all week."
I shrugged. "Haven't been in the mood."
"Is that it? Really, Jasper? You're forgetting to pour yourself a cup of coffee in the morning, not interested in the last bit of marmalade?"
I shot him the same disinterested look I used on anyone who skated too close to the truth for my comfort. "I can't imagine why any of this is an issue."
Linden growled something I couldn't make out and returned to the task of fixing his coffee. It seemed like we were finished with the topic of me leaving the last of the cold brew and Diana's homemade marmalade for him, and that was a relief. The only thing worse than worrying about taking too much was having a discussion based on someone noticing I worried about taking too much. Hell, that was almost as bad as someone noticing and talking about my constant need to arrive early.
Linden set a mug down in front of me, another one beside the stack of papers he'd been working on when I came in. I wasn't sure when he'd picked up more of the locally roasted, small batch, slow-steeped coffee he preferred, seeing as there'd been only one serving left earlier today.
He ran a hand over my shoulders before circling the table and dropping into his seat. "Let's get a few things straight, Jasper."
I eyed him, a brow arched up in an automatic show of defiance. I couldn't help it. Most of the time, I didn't even notice I did it. But I didn't take well to anyone else doing the straightening. I was the sheriff in these parts.
"There will be no more of you leaving the last few spoonfuls of marmalade, the last cup of coffee, none of it. You don't think I see you insisting on showering after me?"
"On the rare occasions in which you permit me to shower independently? That evidence seems insufficient to me."
He rested his forearms on the table, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, and leaned in. "I don't usually go for it when you use that dagger-sharp, killer boss lady voice on me but it's working right now. It's working."
I couldn't stop the smile from tugging at the corners of my lips. "Perhaps it would serve you well to discard this nonsense topic in favor of one more mutually agreeable."
"You're so fucking cute."
I replied with a playful shrug and took a sip of the coffee he'd fixed for me.
"You're cute but I'm not letting you shrug your way out of this," he said. "I don't want to see you leaving the last of anything for me, you understand?"
I studied him for a second. His beard looked thicker than usual today, as if he'd let days pass between trims. I liked it. I liked him slightly overgrown, slightly wild. It suited him.
As uncomfortable as I found this conversation, a small, fragile piece of me also liked when he took charge. When he insisted. I didn't want to like it, I didn't want to feel seen and protected because he noticed me leaving the coffee—and the hot water—for him. I didn't want to be needy in this way. And that was why I pressed my hands to my eyes and let my shoulders fall, saying, "But I can't. Okay? I can't."
"That's tough shit, Jas, because you're going to have to. I'm not putting up with these pointless restrictions of yours anymore."
"You're letting me stay here. The least I can do is make sure you have a hot shower in the morning."
He reached across the table, pulled one hand away from my face. "Why do you think I can't handle a lukewarm shower? Or a cold one, for that matter."
"I know you can handle it," I replied. "But you'd be in there, grumbling and growling about how you could've had hot water if I hadn't used it all."
"Ignoring for a moment that I have a tankless water heater that can accommodate two long, hot showers without a problem, I don't give a single fuck if you use all the water. If you drink all the coffee, eat all the marmalade. I don't give an actual fuck. But I do give a fuck about you forbidding yourself from living here the way you should."
"But I don't want to be a problem or take up too much of your space. I know how protective you are and how you don't like anyone encroaching on you and—"
"Yeah, you're right. I have to be pretty damn sure about letting anyone in."
I couldn't determine whether we were having a small conversation about coffee and showers or a big conversation about the relationship that had sprouted in the space between my personal disasters and his preference for all things casual and detached. I didn't know what this was so I nodded like I understood and hoped that was the right answer.
"I don't hate you, you know," he continued. "I don't hate you one bit and I don't want you limiting your marmalade intake because of me. You're going to eat all the marmalade you want and you're not going to apologize for it, you hear me?"
"But it's the last jar of the clementine! And you like the clementine more than any of the others!"
"The only time I want you saving marmalade for me is w
hen you want me licking it off your tits. Got it?" he asked, his voice raised.
"I will never ask you to do that because I hate my skin feeling sticky," I shouted back.
"That's good to know because I don't like mixing food and sex, and your tits don't need anything to make them more appealing to me."
"Okay, then why are we yelling?"
Linden rolled his eyes. "Because you think it's a crime to take up space even though I want you to take it. I want you to take as much of me as you want."
There were so many layers of discomfort for me in this conversation. I never wanted to admit to keeping myself small or tiptoeing around people. I never wanted to acknowledge that the confidence that entered a room ahead of me was paper thin and dependent upon situations where my role and power were clear. I never wanted to be weak, helpless, voiceless.
I took a sip of the coffee at the center of this debate. "Can we discuss my apple problems now?"
Linden stared at me with a broad grin that seemed slightly manic. "You're impossible."
"I've heard that a few times."
"Yeah? Ever in the context of someone trying to give you everything while you refuse to take hardly anything?"
"Perhaps not," I mused, taking on a lighter, more playful tone than this moment required. When Linden rolled his eyes again, I added, "I heard what you said. I understand. I appreciate it all—"
"Oh, Jesus, Jasper. Don't start appreciating me again. I know what follows your appreciation and it was hard enough the first time. I don't think I can handle another round of your baking."
"I won't bake ever again if we can drop this and talk about my apples."
Linden laced his fingers in mine. "Just as soon as you say you don't hate me."
A heavy moment passed as we stared at each other. Then, when the pressure of keeping those words inside—the ones that weren't the ones but just about close enough for it to matter—was too great to bear, I said, "I don't hate you. Not even a little."
"I know, Peach. I just like hearing you say it." He squeezed my hand, nodded, and continued, "You don't need to worry about the apples. I'll take care of them."
I didn't like the sound of that. "What does that involve? I'm sure I can handle it."
"As with most things, I have no doubt you can handle it. I'm saying you don't have to."
He smirked at me over the rim of his mug and I was absolutely certain I did not hate this man. Oh, I really, really did not hate him.
"Where do you get this coffee from? I've looked up the shop but every time I try to go there, I can't find it. The place seems to exist in another dimension."
He ran a hand over his beard, saying, "This is why I'm going to pick the last of your apples for you. From the trees you didn't notice until now."
"I can do that."
"It's going to require a ladder so no, babe, you're not."
Regardless of how much I enjoyed the tension that grew inside me when Linden insisted, I glared at him. "What about the apples that have already fallen? What should I do about those?"
"Either leave them where they are and let the deer munch on them or clear them out. Another option is we dig a compost heap and let them decompose on the edge of the woods. The woodchucks will burrow into it but they're harmless."
"There are woodchucks out there?"
Linden stood, rounded the table, and jerked my chair back. He bent, wrapping his arms around me and pressing his face to my neck. "Just so you know, I love it when you're impossible."
22
Linden
"What are you supposed to be?"
I turned away from filling the candy bowl and found Jasper crossing between our yards. I gestured to my black and red flannel shirt and red suspenders. "Isn't it obvious? I'm a lumberjack."
Her shoulders slumped as she sighed. "How is that a costume? You wore that shirt last week."
"I just said you needed a costume. I never said it had to be a complicated one." I eyed her black and white dress and cherry red heels. "Tell me about this."
"Since I thought I had to really dive in, as you'd suggested on several occasions, I went for the Cruella de Vil vibe." She ran a hand over the spiked red headband. "People always ask me if I'm trying to look like Cruella or Moira Rose when I wear this dress. That's why I hardly ever wear it. It's not like I need any reminders, you know, but I thought it would work. If I'd known I could've gotten away with something else—"
"Nope, nope. You're fine. Don't question it."
I turned back to the candy bowl because two things were happening to me right now. One, Jasper looked hot as hell. She was winning the shit out of the sexy Halloween costume thing and she wasn't even trying. I wanted to drag her inside and do terrible things to her while she wore nothing but those heels.
And two, I hated the self-deprecating comments she made. Hated them. I didn't know how this woman could be both a bone-crushing kraken queen who had more power in her little finger than most people could conjure in a lifetime, and the source of her own poison. It didn't make any sense to me though it did make me irrationally furious. I wanted to slap the shit out of the people who put that garbage in her head.
"You're going to need a coat," I said over my shoulder. "It's getting down into the low forties tonight."
There was a pause that stretched long enough to tell me I should've found a way to say something nice. She was trying and it was Halloween. I didn't have to focus on the negative simply because it knocked me upside the head.
"Yeah. I'll be right back," she said.
I dumped another bag of candy into the bowl. "For fuck's sake," I muttered to myself.
Abandoning the candy, I headed inside to grab the items I'd prepared for tonight. Trick-or-treating ran two hours past sunset, and while we didn't get too many kids coming this far down the street, I liked to have all my bases covered.
When I returned to the driveway, Jasper was there in a long, creamy white coat and black gloves trimmed with faux fur. If it didn't feel so wrong and harmful to me, I would've told her she made one fine Cruella.
Instead, I said, "Those shoes, Peach."
She popped one leg. "What about them?"
I glanced at the street, checking for early trick-or-treaters. Empty. "Can I get them over my shoulders? Or digging into my ass? Because…damn, babe, you make them look good."
"Why, thank you." She glanced at the bowl. "How does this work? What do we do?"
"We hand out candy, Jasper. It's Halloween."
"Oh, I know that," she replied. "But it's clear you have a strategy in place. You have a system. You might even have trade secrets. I don't know. I'm new to all this."
I handed her the box I'd brought out from the kitchen. "Stay right here." I headed into the garage, grabbed the beach chairs stored there, and returned to the driveway. "Here's the trade secret. We fill the bowl, set up the chairs, and kick back with a cocktail." I pulled the insulated drink bottles from the box. "My first Halloween in this house, I'd forgotten all about trick-or-treaters but Midge covered for me. She also had the beverages covered. White Russians."
"Somehow that doesn't surprise me."
I laughed. "She didn't let me forget about the candy after that."
"Why do I suspect she didn't let you forget the drinks either?"
"That lady kept a strict cocktail schedule. Nothing got in the way." I held out my hands. "That's the system. That's the strategy."
"And the secrets." She clutched the insulated bottle to her chest. "Let's do it."
We stationed ourselves at the end of the drive, candy propped on the overturned box and blankets draped over our laps because it was fucking freezing now that the sun was past the horizon.
"I got an email from Preston this morning," she said, her gaze fixed on her blanket.
Since I had no patience for the ex-husband, no patience whatsoever, I heaved out an irritated breath. "What does that fucking guy need now?"
Still occupied with straightening the blanket, she replied,
"That fucking guy used to be my best friend in D.C."
"Best friends treat each other better than he treated you. So do husbands. It's a damn good thing he's on the other side of the ocean." When she shrugged like that wasn't the cold, hard truth, I asked, "What did he have to say for himself?"
"He forwarded a job he thought I might want to explore."
I waited for her to elaborate but she didn't. "Do you?"
"I'm not sure. It's interesting but it's different." I motioned for her to continue. "He knows some people who put together an organization that identifies regions with the highest levels of voter suppression and engages in extensive community activism to move the needle. What's fascinating to me is they've taken a fully non-partisan approach—or, as nonpartisan as possible, considering the intentions behind suppression efforts—and they've found some positive results." She lifted a shoulder. "Preston said they want to double the number of regions in which they work this year and he thought it might be a good fit for me."
"Am I right to think this sounds very different from your last gig?"
"Yeah, for sure. Completely different. The goal of this organization is increasing access for all voters. They don't take a stand on candidates or issues aside from those specifically tied to voter suppression." She tucked a wisp of hair over her ear. "I mean, it sounds great but, if I went that direction, it would be an enormous change."
"Would that be so bad?"
"I don't know what it would be other than a massive shift from working on a senator's Capitol staff to being fully removed from the Beltway. That could be nice, considering D.C. is not real life and has no connection to the needs and priorities of real people."
She was a bit breathless as she spoke, as if she couldn't get the words out quickly enough. There was a lilt to her voice, the same one I'd heard when she talked about toast and her problems with the local highway system. "You sound excited."
"I might be? Maybe? I'm not sure."
"You're allowed to be excited," I said.
"I'm aware of that, Linden."
I had to smile at the snap in her tone. God, I loved it when she was brutal. "You can see yourself doing this."
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