Page 58 of The Apple Cider Orchard

Jack adjusted their position, his hand sliding from her waist to the small of her back in a subtle shift that brought them closer together. The space between them narrowed until Molly could feel the warmth emanating from his chest.

‘OK?’ he asked quietly, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

Molly nodded, not trusting her voice as she cautiously allowed her cheek to rest against his shoulder. The cotton of his shirt was soft against her skin, and beneath it, she could feel the solid presence of him – steady and substantial in a way that made New York seem impossibly distant, as if it existed in another lifetime.

The vocalist’s gravelly voice carried across the square with poignant clarity:

‘Stone walls and green fields … morning light breaks through the branches,

And whispers of secrets long held in thrall …’

‘It’s a beautiful song,’ Molly murmured, genuinely moved by both the melody and lyrics that painted such a vivid picture of the landscape. ‘They’re very talented.’

‘They wrote it a few years back,’ he explained. ‘Played it first during a particularly good lock-in at the pub.’

As they turned slowly, Jack nodded toward the stage where the band played with evident passion. ‘The lead singer, Conor, is Maeve’s youngest. Been playing since he could hold an instrument. And the one on the fiddle is Maurice the butcher’s kid – trained as an accountant in Dublin.’

Molly watched the musicians – Hearthland, they were called – with renewed interest, seeing beyond their immediate talent to the web of community connections that had nurtured it.

‘But they’re so good,’ she observed, amazed they weren’t already better known. ‘Professional quality.’

‘As good as some of the best by my reckoning,’ Jack agreed. ‘But breaking into the music industry here is another story. They’ve been sending demos to labels in Dublin for years now. Plenty of interest but nothing doing.’

The song continued, the chorus rising with harmonies that sent shivers across Molly’s skin:

‘Where time moves slow as the river’s flow, the land remembers every story,

Of those who stay and those who go …’

‘Reminds me of someone else I know,’ Jack continued, his voice dropping lower with mirth. ‘Exceptional quality, under-appreciated by the wider world. At least until this Yank marketing expert shows up with her big plans.’

The teasing note in his voice surprised her. ‘Are you actually admitting my ideas might be worthwhile, Jack Flynn?’ she asked, leaning back slightly to see his face.

The corner of his mouth curved upward. ‘Don’t let it go to your head. But yes, as it happens, your plan did come in handy for my bank plea today.’

She stared at him, delighted. ‘They approved the finance?’

His expression sobered slightly, though the tension that had characterized their previous discussions of Goldenridge’s finances was less pronounced now.

‘Not yet, but they didn’t turn me down outright for once,’ he told her.

‘I’m sure all’s good,’ Molly assured him, wishing she felt as confident as she sounded. But it was encouraging that he’d used her presentation all the same.

‘Like I said, let’s not worry about these things tonight …’ he murmured, his mouth so close to her neck it made her skin tingle.

They continued to sway together as the song moved into a bridge, the fiddle now taking center stage with a haunting solo that seemed to escalate what was unfolding between them.

Molly felt Jack’s chest rise and fall with a deep breath, his hand unconsciously drawing her closer as the music intensified and the chorus returned, the vocalist putting his whole heart into the lyrics now, his husky voice rising with passion that resonated across the square.

Jack’s eyes found hers as they moved together, something unspoken passing between them that made Molly’s breath catch in her throat. His hand tightened almost imperceptibly at her waist, drawing her fractionally closer until the space between them seemed charged with possibility.

Time seemed to slow, the world beyond their small circle of movement fading into indistinct background noise.

The music continued, but Molly heard it now as if from a distance, her awareness narrowed to the points where Jack’s body touched hers – his hand at her back, his other hand holding hers, the occasional brush of his chest against her own as they swayed to the rhythm. She noticed details with heightened clarity – the slight roughness of stubble along his jaw, the small scar near his left eyebrow, the way his lips parted slightly as his gaze dropped to her mouth.

His head dipped slightly toward hers, his intention unmistakable in the gentle pressure of his hand drawing her closer. Molly found herself rising subtly to meet him, her body responding without conscious decision. The space between them narrowed until she could feel his breath against her cheek, warm and slightly uneven.

The band’s melody built toward its crescendo as the vocalist sang with increasing emotion: