Page 39 of Fall Love

I pause after two steps and rub at my side. “Oof.”

“You okay?” Tate is still holding my hand and rubs his other up my back.

“Think Little Wrench liked that ride. Maybe she’ll be a farmer when she grows up.”

“Honest profession,” Tate says, surprising me.

We move out of the way of others exiting the hayride.

“Did you always want to be in real estate? Stealing businesses from other people?” I tease, but the joke falls flat, and Tate instantly removes his hand from my back and drops my other hand.

“I’m not stealing,” he says, lowering his gaze.

I know all the reasons why he isn’t actually taking Rusty’s from us. The bank, blah-blah. The mortgage, yadda-yadda.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “That wasn’t fair. My dad did what he did, and now we’re left with no choice.” I sigh, stretching my back. “It’s just hard for me. Just like I’ve never left the area, I’ve also only ever worked at Rusty’s Wrecks. The place is important to me. Call me sentimental.”

He glances back at me, arching a brow. “You? Sentimental? I can’t picture it.” Then he winks. “But I get it. Family is important to you. Rusty’s Wrecks holds memories. Good ones, I imagine.”

I nod because the memories are good. The place wasn’t always easy to run, but the times were still fun. Even if they weren’t financially lucrative.

“I just hope Bucky Beaver Body Shop will let me stay on afterward.” I rub my stomach and glance down at it.

“You plan to work after the baby?” He sounds aghast, drawing my attention back to him.

“Of course. I’m not an heiress.” The dig is meant to imply his status as town royalty, but it goes over his head.

Instead, his hand goes into his hair again. “But I thought . . .”

“What?” I counter. “That I’d just be barefoot in my kitchen? Living with ease?”

“No.” He drops his hand, smacking it against his jeans. He stands taller. “No. I just . . . I don’t know what I thought.” His brows press together like he’s puzzled by the thought that he hadn’t really thought about what would happen to me after the sale of Rusty’s and after the baby is born.

“Don’t worry about us.” My voice is tight. “I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

“If I can have your attention, please.” A young man, roughly college-age, with a bushy beard and a beanie on his head, draws our focus to him as he explains which apples are ready for picking and where they are in the lanes of apple trees.

The abrupt stop to the discussion with Tate does nothing to lower my heart rate. The baby kicks like she’s the one about to run between apple trees, when there will be no running involved. My ankles are already swollen in my Birkenstock sandals.

When the man finishes, Tate sets his hand on me, gently leading me forward, and as much as I want to make haste away from him, I just can’t move that fast. He stops to grab a long pole with a little cage on the top that looks similar to a lacrosse stick.

“What’s that for?”

“All the best apples are at the top,” he says, leading us toward a row marked: Honeycrisp.

“And here I thought we’d be picking the low-hanging fruit.”

Tate chuckles. “Just tell me when you see an apple that looks tempting, and I’ll get it for you.”

I can pick my own apples, thank you very much, but I keep that quip to myself until I spot a tree with a ripe-looking collection near the top.

“I spy,” I tease, pointing toward the tree.

Tate lifts the apple-picking pole, but I stop him. “Let me try.”

After he hands over the pole, I lift it as high as I can. The object is to position the apple in the wire basket contraption and twist the pole to pluck the apple. Only as much as I stretch, I’m just not tall enough. I hold the stick at the very bottom, which makes it wave like an unruly flag.

“Here.”