Page 53 of Cherry Tree Ranch

“Sorry, no pistachio today. This is Amarena,” he says.

“What’s that?” I ask, taking the cone.

Wyatt smirks knowingly. “Sour cherry.”

“No way!” I beam. That was sweet of him. “They’ve never had this flavour before.”

Wyatt guides us to a courtyard outside full of large trees with low swooping branches. The warm air is full of fresh scents from the trees and flowers, and I take a deep breath, pulling it all in. The twinkle lights hanging from the trees cut through the black night sky. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t romantic. We sit on a bench and Wyatt slyly takes a lick of my gelato.

“Hey!” I jest, elbowing him in the side.

“Damn, that’s good. I asked where they get the cherries for that flavour.” He licks a drip of stracciatella gelato off his cone and takes a small bite off the top. With a full mouth he says, “They use preserved cherries from Italy. The girl behind the counter is the owner’s daughter, and I told her that I know someone who grows sour cherries locally.”

“You did?” I’m touched.

“Yeah. She said it would be great if they could get them from you because importing the authentic ones is pretty expensive.”

I study Wyatt, his face full of joy. “Thank you for doing that,” I say.

He points at my cone. “Better eat before it melts away.”

I take several long licks of the creamy, slightly sour and very decadent treat.

“Good?” he asks.

“Very. Thank you.”

“So, that guy – our waiter. He picks cherries with you?”

I swallow. “Yeah. He started helping because he needed something to do while healing from a concussion.” I pause to chew a big chunk of cherry. “Remember at the rodeo, when the ambulance came? That was him. He got kicked in the head.”

“Hmm.” Wyatt mumbles into his gelato, and it sounds an awful lot like he says, “Cowboys aren’t the smartest bunch.”

I ignore the comment because Cash is being a jerk and I don’t really care right now. I finish my gelato, down to every last bite of the cone, and Wyatt hands me a napkin to wipe my fingers. Then he wraps an arm over my shoulder.

We watch people come and go through the courtyard, on their way to get dinner at the farm-to-table restaurants a stone’s throw away. I try to imagine what people might have thought about my cherries at the public tasting today. I can hardly wait to find out. Wyatt tells me about business school and offers ideas for marketing my cherries and honey. I tell him about the competition and the pitch I have to deliver tomorrow.

With his arm round my shoulder, he gently runs a finger up and down my neck. He asks me all sorts of questions, including what’s special about my cherries and how they can fill a gap in the market. I realize he’s really helping me narrow down my pitch.

“Thanks, Wyatt, for all the ideas.” I tilt my head up. “I’m really glad we did this.”

“Me too,” he says, his eyes soft. He brushes my cheek with his thumb and kisses me on the lips, short and sweet.

“Sorry.” I gesture towards the building. “Hold that thought. I drank too much lemonade.” I free myself from Wyatt’s warm arm and head to the bathroom, praying Cash’s shift is over.

Wyatt chuckles and waves me away. “It’s OK, go, go.”

Cash’s shift is not over. The moment I walk through the door, I bump straight into him. He’s rushing to a table with drinks, and they splash back all over his chest.

“Cash,” I say, “I’m so sorry!”

I’m about to help him with the drinks when he points with his free hand. “Stay there.”

After snatching a pile of napkins, he finds me in the back hallway by the restrooms. He tugs a small keychain from his front pocket and opens an unmarked door. After stealing a glance behind us, he pulls me inside. It’s a storage closet with sacks of sugar and flour, packets of parmesan and red pepper, and giant cans of tomato sauce.

“Cash!” I hiss. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t take this any more.” He dabs his shirt with the napkins. “Please, will you hear me out?”