I considered that for a moment while I chewed another gooey, cheesy bite. “Maybe because they work together?”
“It’s not like your family farm has an HR department,” Bonnie countered.
“I don’t know. Could be because of all the rumors about his divorce and his daughter. Or maybe he’s just a really private person.”
The truth was I didn’t know for sure what was going on between Mark and my sister. But I did know that following our near-kiss at Firefly the other night, Mark had some very obvious buyer’s remorse. If the runaway-bride act hadn’t clued me in, the deliberatenothing-to-see-herevibes the following day had done it. Like a restaurant hostess, Mark had seated me firmly in the friend zone. I wasn’t about to beg. If he had reservations—Joan-related or not—then I wasn’t going to force it.
We worked together, and I had a life I needed to get back to. A career that was sure to take me out of sight and out of mind in a few short months. No need to make my time in Kirby Falls awkward.
Yet, to myself and maybe Lance Bass, I could admit that I had fun with Mark. Closing out that night at Firefly with a kiss would have been pretty fantastic. Yes, I was attracted to him. Who wouldn’t be? He had that wholegentle giantthing going on. Kind, soft-spoken, competent, and able to bench-press the John Deere tractor out back. Plus, his rock-hard thighs didn’t hurt either. I wanted him to wrap me up in his strong arms and kiss me on the forehead...and other places.
But if he wanted to be just friends, that was okay too. I could do that. And if he was secretly dating my sister, he needed to be a little more careful who he brushed noses with.
Bonnie’s phone buzzed from the coffee table, halting the conversation, which was, honestly, probably a good thing. I should stop discussing Mark and rambling about Mark and thinking about Mark.
She snatched up her cell and read the screen. Her teeth chewed on her bottom lip as she typed out a careful response. Suddenly, I worried that my invitation to hang out tonight had started an argument with her husband.
I didn’t want to be nosy, but the frown on her green-mud-mask-spackled face was pretty severe. “Everything okay? Do you need to go?”
Bonnie’s brown eyes met mine and she forced a smile. “No. I’m staying herewith you. We’re having a girls’ night.” Then her phone buzzed once more and her gaze hardened. Her thumbs flew across the screen as she texted.
“There’s nothing wrong with taking a little time for myself,” she gritted out before turning the screen off and placing the device facedown on the table.
“Definitely,” I agreed cautiously. I wondered what that was all about, but I didn’t want to push if she didn’t want to talk about it.
After the all-caps text message I’d accidentally seen back at the shaved ice shack, I’d gotten a vibe about Bonnie’s husband. When she’d first arrived tonight, I’d asked after Danny, but Bonnie had given me a pretty vague “he’s fine” in response. I kind of got the impression he took his sweet, thoughtful wife for granted. I didn’t want to cause trouble for my new friend, but I also thought she deserved a night out, or nightinas it were.
Instead of making things awkward, I checked the time and said, “We should probably wash this goop off our faces. Twenty minutes was up a while ago.”
Bonnie prodded at the dried concoction covering her chin. “I’d be okay if it shrank my pores down to nothing. Most days I feel like they’re visible from the International Space Station.”
I laughed. “Come on. Let’s rinse and then we can switch it over to yourSons of Anarchyshow.”
“Yes, please. You’re going to love it.” She let out a dreamy little sigh. “There is just something about a bad boy on a motorcycle.”
I couldn’t help but think of the photo of Bonnie’s husband, Danny, on her lock screen. He was a thin white guy with a receding hairline and a new mustache he was trying out. He looked like the furthest thing from a leather-wearing MC member you could possibly get.
But maybe the fantasy was just something you squealed over with your girlfriends. Maybe the you who fantasized about bad-boy bikers was just as fictional as the fantasy itself. You didn’t go home with the guy on the television screen. Daydreams looked different for everyone, and they seldom compared to reality.
My own whispered fantasy had taken the shape of someone so unexpected that teenage Candy wouldn’t have known what to think. But here I was, twenty-fiveyears old, back in my hometown, and crushing on a certifiable blast from the past. A man with quiet words, a deep voice, and a kind heart.
A man who was maybe involved with my sister.
Sometimes the fantasy was safer in your own head, like Bonnie’s fixation on dangerous bikers.
I passed her a hand towel and said, “Amen to that.”
The following weekend, I found myself in the foggy early morning setting up for a birthday party at the farm. Little Aiden Dorsey was turning five and, according to his grandmother, had a thing for tractors.
This was my third event since updating the Judd’s Orchard website with details for party rentals. It was actually a pretty easy gig, and something I could manage for my folks on my own.
The parties took place during regular weekend business hours. I simply arrived early to mark the picnic tables reserved and set them up with party decorations, cups of fresh apple cider, and take-home baskets for each guest to pick up to three pounds of apples. All the party hosts needed to do was have their attendees show up. I welcomed everyone, stored any gifts, and slapped wristbands on the children planning to jump on the bounce pillow.
It was easy enough to accompany the party out to the fields and ensure they were going to the rows markedRipe for Picking. The kids also liked it when I did a little demonstration on the best way to pick apples. Sometimes I hung around and snapped pictures for busy parents. It was fun, and I really enjoyed this part of my job. Making people happy and helping them make memories never got old.
We had at least one party on the schedule every weekend between now and our new closing date of January 1. Joan had agreed to stay open through December and set up the Christmas tree lot to see how things went. She wasn’t ready to plant our own Fraser firs, but I’d found a tree farm north of Weaverville to supply us with trees to sell this year. I was feeling very hopeful.
Sales had been good since the farm opened for the season nearly a month ago. The two Friday Night Food Truck events had been well received, bringing in local families and out-of-towners alike. The cider-and-apple-pairing event at Firefly had been a huge success. We had two other local collaborations coming up in as many weeks, and it was my hope that we’d close out September with a nice net profit for the farm.
