Even the sound of the fruit grading machine wasn't enough to drown out Dawson's thoughts. He was so caught up in thinking about what Layla said the night before that so far he'd managed to drop four apples while bagging them for the shop.
The expansive sorting building, with its worn wooden walls and high windows that let in the August sun, was usually his safe haven. Jack and Kenzie could never stand the noise or the lack of air conditioning in the summer, so it was here where he went to get away from everything else. He liked the solitude, the drone of the machine, and the fact that bagging apples was second nature. Well, usually. Today, everything just felt off.
He didn't think his mind would stop turning over questions about Layla even if the machine suddenly burst into flames. Hell, the red would probably just remind him of her hair.
It just didn't make sense. She could have any man she wanted; what the hell was she doing marrying some guy she didn't even like? With how quick she'd snapped back at him after the workout and how she'd caught on to his slightly-pathetic way of cornering her into walking with him last night, he knew she was smart. So how could she do something so stupid?
Was Foster Fitness collapsing as a business, and this was the last chance to save it? He doubted that—they had celebrities plastered all over their Instagram, and their YouTube workout videos hit a million views easy. Okay, so maybe he'd done some snooping last night hoping to find out more about Layla. It wasn't a crime to be curious.
He walked over the nearby wheelbarrow and began stacking the clear bags of Gala's inside. Social media only told so much, though, and he knew that. What if she really was giving up any chance at love just to save the business?
On one hand, Dawson could understand. McAden Orchard was his life, and he wasn't sure who he'd be without it. But as he wheeled the apples out of the propped-open barn doors, down the dirt path towards the shop, he almost had to pause for a second as the weight of it hit him: he couldn't do it. If the orchard was failing and the only way to save it was to marry some random cherry orchard heiress from down the road, he wouldn't.
He laughed to himself as he maneuvered the wheelbarrow through the back doors of the store. No, he wouldn't do it, but he'd probably try to convince Jack to.
Still, what did it say about him? About Layla? Again, he found himself respecting the passion, but had to wonder if it was better to have too little than too much of it.
Dawson walked through to the main floor where Adam was at the register ringing up items for an elderly couple. He nodded at his cousin as he passed, heading for the apple display—until he caught a flash of red hair in one of the aisles. His feet seemed to change direction all on their own.
Layla was standing there with a jar of applesauce in each hand, looking over the descriptions on the back that Kenzie and Jack had written together—when it came to describing food, Dawson rarely came up with anything more descriptive than, "It tastes good."
She had one of the store's red baskets at her elbow, resting against her hip. And now, with the way the day was shining down onto her and making her hair look like liquid sunlight, he could see the appeal of the skylight.
"Careful," Dawson said as he approached, grabbing her attention. Her eyes met his, and her eyebrows raised in a greeting that didn't seem to hold any animosity. After last night, he wasn't sure exactly where they stood. "You stay long enough in here, you might end up spending more than my sister's paying you."
He felt his tension melt as she smiled at the joke. Apparently, they weren't on bad terms. He'd half expected her to go storming off.
She gestured to her basket. "I think I'm halfway there."
He looked over the items inside: a candle, two Ginger Gold apples, and one of the apple strudels his father taught him to bake. Not that any of the customers ever needed to know he was the one behind the pastries.
He picked it up, the plastic crinkling between his fingers. "You're allowed to eat this?"
She laughed, taking it back. "I let myself have a treat now and then, if that's what you mean."
"I'd say it's well earned, after yesterday's workout. You guys doing that same thing every day?"
She shook her head, and naturally fell into step beside him as he slowly started towards the large crates of apple bags. "It's good to switch things up. Yesterday we focused more on legs and core. Today was about arms. But the cardio is pretty consistent."
He parked the cart next to the crate filled with bags of red Gala apples. "I never liked running. Can't say I'm sorry I missed that part."
"Well I always tell my clients that the most important part of any workout plan is making sure you like it. If they tell me they're dreading their workouts, then I know I have to come up with something new for them to try instead. There are tons of different apple breeds, so you wouldn't eat one you don't like just because it's healthy, right?"
Dawson scrunched his nose. "Right. Red Delicious. Disgusting excuse for an apple." If the fruit wasn't so nasty, it'd make a damn good nickname for the redhead in front of him.
She laughed, shifting her basket as he started unloading the bags. "I like Granny Smith the best, myself."
The sharp, zingy taste suited her, he thought. "Come back at the start of November and you'll have the best ones you've ever tasted." It occurred to him that she might be married by then. That she might bring her husband with her.
She picked up one of the bags, turning it around as if looking for information. "So these are all McAden apples? You guys bag them yourself?"
"Mm-hmm. Jack's working on getting us some fancy bags with our label printed on them. Personally I don't see why it matters. If someone bought 'em from here, they know where they came from. The extra product we ship out to major distributors gets grouped in with apples from fifty-or-so other orchards, so it's not like our bags will ever end up in a chain store." He realized he was rambling, airing the complaints his brother had shrugged off. "Anyway, you get checked out, I'll take you over to where we bag 'em. If you wanna see."
Her eyes lit with an interest he hadn't expected. "Yeah, okay. I'd like that."
Layla could only ask herself one question as she walked over to where Dawson was waiting by the front door with a now-empty wheelbarrow: what was she thinking?
Adam finished ringing up her things and had put them neatly into a paper bag for her with a smile that made him look like one of the movie stars she trained back home. What was probably charming to most women who shopped there made Layla squirm—it was no fault of his own, just an unfortunate reminder of what she had to go back to day after day if this test-run didn't impress her parents. More stars like Jake Roberts, who wouldn't hesitate to put the moves on her despite her ring and his own girlfriend.
But was she any better? Despite her engagement she was accepting an invitation to hang out with a man who had not only drudged up emotions she'd buried back in high school, but who was constantly questioning the validity of her relationship.
It was like she was asking for trouble.
But she wasn't, not really. What was so trouble-inducing about going to see the inner workings of the orchard? It was an innocent offer, and she'd innocently accepted. That was all.
Okay, so maybe she'd get to spend a few more minutes looking at him, and pretending like she wasn't. Maybe she was hoping for another hit of that fuzzy feeling she got whenever he looked at her for too long, like he had last night.
God, last night. Really, what was she thinking hanging out with a man, or even talking to him after he'd pestered her into a corner and made her fess up to her big lie?
"Ready?" he asked as she approached. She should make up some excuse, head off back to her room and work on the B&GBC spreadsheets to show to her parents when she got home.
She took one look at his face and nodded, lifting up the lightweight bag cradled in her arms. "Ready."
She was helpless. She followed Dawson out into the late-summer warmth, shielding her eyes from the sun as they walked around the building. He led her onto one of the dirt paths, and up ahead she could see a brown building that looked older than the rest on the property, like it hadn't been included in the renovations.
"You can put your bag down, if you want," he offered, nodding to the wheelbarrow. She thanked him and placed it inside, but now wasn't sure what to do with her arms, her hands, or anything else apart from her legs as she walked beside him. When was the last time she'd felt so... flustered? So off balance?
A few sparrows flew by overhead, chirping away in the cerulean sky. As she and Dawson came over the crest of a hill, she looked out over the rows and rows of apple trees that spanned the acres of land. Even from far away, she could see the red and gold fruits that adorned some of the trees. Others were covered in pale blossoms, getting ready to bear fruit for the upcoming autumn. On a breeze that made the branches dance in unison, she got a whiff of the permanently sweet air.
Dawson had said last night that he thought New Yorkers were proud of their city. The truth was, after traveling so much, Layla'd never really understood the mentality of being proud of where you came from. It wasn't as if you'd had any say in the matter. But here... here she understood. She wouldn't have understood if someone wasn't proud to have grown up here.
He wheeled his cart inside the propped open doors of the building and she followed, sight adjusting to the slightly dimmer lighting. There was a large, long machine that stuck out in the center of the room, with what looked like a conveyor belt in the center and six sections sticking out from either side. The heat of the room surrounded her, urged her to pull her hair away from her neck. The only respites were the spots of shade between the windows or the breeze that sometimes carried through the door.
"This," Dawson started, resting a hand on the metal, "is a food grading machine. First we pick the apples from the trees, then we bring the barrels in here, where we store them in the freezer." He turned and pointed to the back of the building, where there was a large metal door. "When I'm ready to bag them, I take 'em out, put 'em on the belt, and they're sorted by size. They get polished on the way through the sorter by the bristles. Any bruised ones get taken out and stored to use for baking or cider."
She watched in fascination as he showed her the process from start to finish. "You're good at explaining all this."
"Well, I've had practice. Red View Elementary brings the fourth-graders up here for field trips every fall. I've been explaining this process almost every year since I was seventeen. You can add an extra year if you count when I was one of those fourth-graders, and stole the spotlight away from my mother to explain everything to my classmates myself."
She smiled at that image, and figured Dawson was probably one hell of a handful at nine years old. "I went on a field trip to a dairy farm once in upstate New York, but it wasn't nice like this. Apple trees smell nice—cows, not so much."
"Did you milk one?" He scrunched his nose. "When I went to my aunt's farm for one summer, she had me milk the cows with her every morning. Learned that year that I definitely prefer taking care of trees, as opposed to animals that'll happily take a crap a few inches from where you're sitting."
She laughed, shaking her head. "No, I didn't get to milk one."
Of course, the other kids had. They'd partnered up while Layla watched from the sidelines. She'd been taught by private tutors for the first few years of school, and by the time her parents settled down and got her enrolled in a public school, she was completely out of the loop on how to make friends.
She knew how to get adults to like her—waiting room secretaries, business associates, her parents lawyer. If she stayed quiet, was polite, and offered them a gap-toothed smile, they would ruffle her hair or give her a magazine to keep her occupied while the grown ups were talking.
But other kids? They were a mystery. They wanted to share stories about going to Disneyland that summer, or how they'd won the big teddy bear prize at the boardwalk on vacation. Her stories about waiting rooms in Dubai skyscrapers weren't exciting or relatable.
She wanted them to like her, wanted to play basketball at recess or sit in a group with the pretty girls during free hour, whispering over coloring book pages. But she'd never been taught how to make friends with someone under the age of thirty, and was too scared to make a fool out of herself to try to learn. So she sat at her desk, stayed quiet during lessons, and let the teacher ruffle her hair in praise at the parent-teacher conference. At least she'd gotten one person to like her.
"I guess I should be grateful." She did her best to keep the sadness out of her voice. "Doesn't sound like much fun."
Dawson rested a hip against the table, which now had one perfect bag of apples on it. For reasons she could hardly understand, she wanted it. He'd taken the time to show her how all this was done, to give a speech he was probably tired of giving. How pathetic was it that she didn't want to forget that? That this was the first time she could remember in God knew how long where someone cared enough to take time out of their day for her?
Of course, the apples would rot if she didn't eat them. And in a few months, when she was long gone from McAden, so would this memory. She'd forget the muggy heat that covered her skin, the way the humidity curled Dawson's hair. Maybe if she was lucky enough she'd forget she ever wanted to remember it.
"Is it my turn for an explanation?" Dawson asked, breaking her absent-minded wondering of where the apples might end up, and if whoever ate them would be able to taste all the burdens she'd placed on them.
An explanation? She could guess where this conversation was heading: right back to where they'd been last night. She raised an eyebrow, and forced herself to shut the door on all that vulnerability she'd just been drowning in. "About?"
"Explain to me how this... arrangement works with Colin."
"You're interested in the merger?" She asked, knowing that wasn't what he meant. If he wanted to talk about this again, he was at least going to have to work for it.
"Not the merger, the relationship. I mean, I'm just having a hard time imagining how something like that works."
"Very simply. Would you hand me that?" She pointed to the brown bag sitting in the wheelbarrow, which now had a wet spot on the side. "I've got a cold cider in there."
Instead of handing her the bag, he reached inside and pulled out the bottle, which was slick with condensation. He wiped it on his shirt and opened it before handing it to her—if it wasn't so crafty of him to refrain from handing her the bag so that she'd be less likely to leave, it might've been sweet. "D'you two at least get along? It'd be hard running a business together someday if you're always arguing."
"We get along."
"So you're friends."
"You could say that." That was a loophole of an answer—she and Colin weren't friends. But she hadn't exactly said that they were, so it wasn't technically a lie. God, was she tired of the lies. Why was she even trying to dance around the truth with Dawson anymore?
"More than friends?" He asked as she took a sip. The liquid was still chilled from the cooler in the store, and it cooled her from the inside out.
She finally looked at him as she lowered the bottle, bewildered by the audacity. "Are you asking what I think your asking?"
"What—" He stopped as his eyes widened, and he shook his head with a laugh. "No, and I wasn't planning to. I was asking about romance, not what you think I meant. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious now."
He was running laps around a question she didn't care enough to be offended by.
"Yes. Colin and I have slept together," she answered simply. It was a few times, back when she thought that maybe at least he could be happy with the arrangement their parents were so desperately attempting to make. She glanced at her smart-watch. "But that was a long time ago. As of right now, he's probably on his way to have sex with the girl who runs the juice bar at my gym."
The way his expression fell into shock brought her a quick surge of satisfaction. "What?"
"Judging by your reaction, I think you heard me."
"He's cheating on you? And you know, and yet you're still going to marry the bastard."
"I guess I don't think of it as cheating." She shrugged. "Colin and I aren't romantic. Hell, we aren't even friends. To everyone else we're a couple, but to us, we're just business partners." And she doubted if it made a difference to her parents either way.
"So he knows that you know. It's just part of your... agreement."
She wished it was that simple. But despite their incompatibility and her obvious lack of interest, Colin seemed keen on keeping his affair a secret. "I didn't say that. But now that you mention it, things might be simpler if I tell him I know about it, that it doesn't bother me."
"Christ. I don't get it, Layla."
"No one's asking you to," she said, almost with a laugh. It wasn't like she was dying for him to understand. Truthfully, she could barely understand it herself sometimes.
"I just—I mean—you're not only marrying the guy, you're looping your matrimony into a massive business deal. You're sticking yourself to a guy you don't even like. From everything I've heard it seems like we have more chemistry than the two of you."
The last sentence had her wishing she could laugh and tell him he was wrong. But the very idea that he noticed it too was enough to have a swell of nerves blooming inside of her.
"I think we've talked enough about my love life for the day." She set her drink on the table and wiped her hands on her jeans, feigning casualty as she worked up the nerve to say, "Tell me about yours."
"Mine?" He pursed his lips, leaned back against the machine. His legs crossed in front of him, long and lean in their worn-out jeans. He looked like one fluid line of relaxation.
How could he be so unbothered by the question? He pushed her buttons without even trying, and she couldn't so much as touch his even when she gave it her best shot.
He raised one shoulder. "I guess there's not much to talk about. Haven't had a date in a long while. Red View isn't exactly chock-full of women."
"Well why didn't your last date work out?"
"I wouldn't say it didn't work out. It was more like both of us just knew it wasn't anything more than a one-time thing."
A one-time thing. Somehow she got the feeling that wasn't the only date that turned out that way. Was that the kind of guy he was? One night stands, no strings attached? She wondered if it was any harder for the women he went with. She wondered if she would be able to just walk away after a night with Dawson.
Her insides flipped. She wished it was from nausea. Why would she go and think a stupid thought like that, about sleeping with a man who'd done almost nothing but pester her since they'd met? And more importantly, why the hell did it make her face warm up? Even in the sweltering heat, she could feel the crimson on her cheeks.
This was all starting to be a little too much. She was starting to feel a little too... alive. It was like her feelings had been off for the past few years and only now, now that she was at Red View, did the switch get turned the other way. She'd had more emotions in the past few days than she'd felt in months.
"Dawson!"
She flinched at the shout, turned to see a tall figure standing in the doorway, shrouded by the glow of light from behind him until he stepped forward. Jack. Relief flooded her body at the interruption—she didn't know how to reply to Dawson, didn't know how to irritate him the way he did her. She wasn't even sure she wanted to.
"Fertilizer shipment just came in," Jack barked out the words and turned, leaving.
"That's his way of asking me to go take care of it," Dawson said, grabbing her bag from the wheelbarrow and handing it to her. As she took it, cradling it in her arms, he reached for the bag of apples and slid it inside. The smile he gave her made her clutch the bag a little tighter, needing something to hold onto. "They're yours. Free souvenir—Just don't tell Jack."
"Thank you," she breathed, knowing she'd think of this moment, the way she could feel her heart beat and how she shivered just from having him that close for a second with every bite.
"See you at dinner," he said with a dip of his head before starting for the door. If the way their shoulders brushed made his heart flutter the way hers did, he was good at hiding it.
I keep forgetting to mention anything about Kenzie's career 😅 She obviously helps out at the orchard a little bit, but I need to remember to mention her actual job the next time it makes sense to bring it up LOL.
Honestly I probably should have mentioned it by now, so maybe I'll go back and edit it in somewhere. 🤔 In case I do, I'll go ahead and say now (for all the current readers 💚) that she works at the Red View Elementary School as a teacher's aide! 👩🏫