Page 12 of The Apple Cider Orchard

Looking for all the world like someone who had just realized they truly weren’t in Kansas anymore.

Chapter 6

Before Molly could even form an apology, the guy was in motion. He strode toward the scattered fruit with purpose, scooping up apples with quick, efficient movements. Rain darkened the leather jacket across his broad shoulders as he knelt to retrieve three gleaming apples from a puddle, his large hands gentle despite their obvious strength. She stood frozen, mortification washing over her in waves hotter than her rain-chilled skin.

‘Oh gosh! I’m so sorry,’ she finally managed, her voice thin against the drum of rain. He didn’t respond, already moving to capture another apple that was making a slow escape toward a drain. His silence amplified her embarrassment. ‘I didn’t see the— I was just trying to …’

‘Set them free?’ he called, his voice rich with mirth and an accent that turned the simple question into something musical. He lunged sideways, hand shooting out to catch an apple mid-bounce off a cobblestone. In one fluid motion, he straightened and tossed it to her.

The apple arced through the rain and Molly caught it reflexively, the fruit cool and smooth against her palm. ‘Nice catch. You’d make a great camogie player.’

She laughed, the sound surprising her. ‘I have no idea what that this,’ she replied, her smile feeling a bit rusty, but real. ‘But if it’s a compliment, I’ll take it.’

Something shifted in the man’s expression – a slight softening around his eyes, a quirk at the corner of his mouth that wasn’t quite a smile but suggested the possibility of one. ‘Just in from the airport?’

She nodded, suddenly acutely aware of water trickling down her neck, of her drenched pants clinging uncomfortably to her legs, of her hair hanging in rattails around her face. ‘Shannon.’

‘Long journey to make in this weather,’ he observed.

‘I didn’t exactly plan the weather part,’ she replied, another smile tugging at her lips despite her discomfort.

His expression lightened, the severe lines of his face rearranging into something altogether more appealing.

‘Nobody plans the weather,’ he grunted. ‘It does what it pleases, when it pleases.’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘This should pass soon enough, though. These autumn squalls never last long.’

As if in direct contradiction, thunder rumbled overhead and the rain, if possible, intensified on cue. Molly couldn’t help it – a laugh bubbled up. ‘You were saying?’ she teased, gesturing at the deluge.

He shook his head, those almost-smile lines deepening around his dark eyes. ‘My own fault. Never try to predict anything in Golden Valley,’ he said. ‘This place has a mind of its own.’

Molly moved closer, gathering two more apples. They were smaller than the ones she was used to seeing in markets back home – more delicate somehow, their skin a watercolor blend of yellow and blushing pink.

‘They’re beautiful,’ she commented, turning one in her hand before placing it back in the cart. ‘But I don’t think I’ve ever seen one this small.’

‘Well, no one’s ever told me that before.’ He winked and Molly reddened automatically at the blatant double-entendre. Then he chuckled, reaching beneath a parked bicycle for another fugitive. ‘Katy variety. Early season. They don’t travel well, so you wouldn’t find them in your American supermarkets.’

She raised an eyebrow, pausing in her retrieval. ‘That obvious?’

Now his mouth did curve into an actual smile, revealing a dimple in his right cheek that did unreasonable things to Molly’s pulse rate. He gestured vaguely at her entire person. ‘You’re wearing “lost tourist” like a sign around your neck.’

Instead of feeling insulted, she found herself smiling back. ‘Oh really?’

‘Let’s just say first-time visitors to Ireland are easy enough to spot.’ He moved toward the fountain at the center of the square, where more apples had come to rest against the ancient stonework. ‘Like cats caught in the rain – offended by the very existence of weather,’ he added, eyes twinkling mischievously.

‘I’ll have you know I was fully prepared for the rain,’ Molly protested, following him. ‘Just not for … amphibious transportation across medieval cobblestones.’

He guffawed, the sound warm against the cold morning. ‘They’ve been here since 1772, actually. Not quite medieval.’

‘My mistake. Merely antique, then,’ Molly quipped, thoroughly enjoying the exchange.

They worked in tandem, moving around the square in a widening circle. She found herself matching his rhythm – bend, retrieve, return to the cart – falling into a dance with a stranger whose name she didn’t even know.

Their hands brushed as they both reached for the same apple, his fingers warm against her rain-chilled skin. Molly felt the contact like a current, surprisingly intense for such a brief touch. She glanced up, finding his eyes – brown with flecks of gold– already on hers.

‘Sorry,’ they said simultaneously, then both smiled awkwardly.

‘Ladies first,’ he said, withdrawing his hand.

Molly picked up the apple – larger than the others, with a deeper red blush across its skin. ‘This one’s different,’ she observed, turning it in her palm.