Page 28 of The Apple Cider Orchard

Again, Molly felt a flutter of something that had nothing to do with the confrontation – an awareness of him as more than an obstacle. The stubborn set of his jaw, the way his battered leather jacket stretched across broad shoulders, the strength evident in his weathered hands.

‘Right,’ he said finally, ignoring her attempted handshake. ‘Look, I don’t know what your game is, but I’ve seen your type before. The friendly approach, the casual questions, the interest in my land.’ His voice hardened. ‘Then comes the offer, always presented as some great opportunity that I’d be a fool to refuse.’

She let her hand fall back to her side, the flutter of attraction quickly overshadowed by embarrassment.

‘I’m not interested in buying your orchard,’ Molly assured him. ‘I’m here on personal business that has nothing to do with you or your land.’ Not entirely true, but close enough. She tried once more, letting her smile widen just enough to create the dimple in her left cheek that her colleagues called her ‘secret weapon’ in difficult client meetings. ‘In fact, I was hoping to try some of your famous cider while I’m in the village. Eva tells me it’s worth crossing the Atlantic for.’ The flirtation in her tone was subtle but unmistakable – a tactic she’d rarely needed to employ in her professional life, but in this case, was worth a shot. Especially when he’d been perfectly fine with it yesterday.

Jack’s posture became, if possible, even more rigid. ‘The Orchard Pub serves our cider. Edge of the main square. Can’t miss it.’ Each word was clipped short, while his face was a mask of cold resistance. ‘Now, if you’re finished “admiring” my oak, I have work to do.’

His emphasis on ‘my oak’ carried a clear message: whatever Molly’s interest in the tree, he considered it off-limits. Boundaries were being drawn, not just in the physical space but in the interaction between them.

She’d miscalculated, Molly knew, a little ashamed now. The charm that disarmed corporate boardrooms had only deepened his suspicion. Worse, after their flirtatious encounter yesterday, she found herself genuinely disappointed by his response – or lack thereof. There was something about this guy – his directness, perhaps, or the evident passion he had for his land – that sparked unexpected interest.

Interest that was clearly not reciprocated.

‘Fine,’ she said, stepping back from the wall. ‘So sorry to have bothered you.’ Molly turned to go, frustration and disappointment mingling uncomfortably in her chest.

A few steps down the path, she paused and looked back.

Jack Flynn stood where she’d left him, silhouetted against the afternoon sky, the ancient oak rising majestically behind him. For a moment, they looked like parts of the same picture – the man and the tree, equally rooted, equally stubborn.

Noticing her pause, he gestured toward the village again. ‘Pub’s that way,’ he reiterated. ‘Enjoy.’

The dismissal was unmistakable. She turned away, trying to ignore the sting of his rejection – both of her interest in the tree and her subtle overtures, and headed back along the path, autumn leaves crunching beneath her feet, the sound no longer pleasant but percussive with frustration.

The worst part wasn’t Jack Flynn’s suspicion or his brusque manner. It was the fact that despite all that, despite his entirely unreasonable hostility, Molly still found herself drawn to him.

The intensity in his eyes when he spoke of his land, the evident pride he took in his heritage, even the protectiveness that manifested as rudeness – all hinted at a depth of character that intrigued her far more than it should.

‘Ridiculous,’ she muttered to herself as the path curved back toward the lake. She was here for her grandmother, for a promise made at Aoife’s bedside.

Not to develop an inconvenient attraction to a grumpy apple farmer who clearly wanted nothing to do with her.

Chapter 14

On Saturday afternoon, Molly stood this time at the official entrance to Goldenridge Orchard. Outside the gate, a makeshift sign hung gently: Goldenridge Farm Shop.

After another fruitless (hah!) encounter with Jack Flynn, she’d retreated to the hotel to lick her wounds and reconsider her approach. Eva had mentioned something about a weekend farm shop at the orchard, and so she’d asked the older woman, Brid, at the Glen Arms about it.

‘Sign at the main gate, can’t miss it, open Saturday and Sunday afternoons. Tell Patrick I said hello.’

Though ‘shop’ was an overstatement, Molly thought now. A small outbuilding sat nestled against a larger structure that must be the cider press. The main building appeared much older, with thick stone walls and small, latticed windows that reflected the light. Roses climbed one wall, their late blooms adding splashes of pink against the weathered white paint.

The orchard seemed peaceful today, with only the distant sound of a tractor’s engine in the background. Hoping that Jack Flynn was safely out of the way this time, Molly approached the outhouse and pushed open the door.

The interior enveloped her in a symphony of sensations. Light streamed through the small windows in golden shafts, and the room smelled of polished wood, ripe fruit, and the sweet-sharp tang of fermentation from the cider press next door. Beneath these dominant scents lingered subtler notes: beeswax, hay, and the earthy scent of fresh apples.

Wooden shelves lined the walls, laden with Goldenridge products arranged in meticulous displays. Bottles of cider in varying shades of amber stood in orderly rows, their labels embossed with the orchard’s logo; an oak tree with roots that transformed into flowing script.

Jam jars filled with apple butter, preserves and chutneys caught the light, their contents glowing like jewels. A small refrigerator held wedges of cheese, small tubs of cream, and what appeared to be homemade ice cream.

At the center of the shop, a large oak table displayed the star attractions – apples arranged by variety in shallow wooden bowls. Each bore a handwritten card identifying the type and best uses: Cox’s Orange Pippin – Dessert, Great for Fresh Eating; Bloody Butcher – Cooking, Holds Shape; Kilkenny Pearmain – Cider, Complex Flavor.

Behind the table sat a tall, lean man with a shock of silver hair. He stood up as Molly entered, his weathered face composed and watchful. Despite his evident age – seventy-something at least – he stood straight, with only a slight stoop to his shoulders. A thick sweater in oatmeal wool hung loosely on his frame, and his hands resting on the counter bore the callouses and slight tremor of someone who’d worked the land for decades.

This must be the great-uncle, Patrick.

‘Afternoon,’ he greeted, his voice carrying the melodic lilt of rural Ireland softened by age into a gentle burr. ‘Welcome.’