Now, there was a white truck coming up the drive with its windows down and a man in a hat behind the wheel.
My mom stepped out onto the porch as the vehicle slowed beside the farmhouse. “Mercer!” she called. “Stop for a minute. Come on over!”
Ah. So this was the other farm employee I’d heard so much about. And the only full-time non-family member on staff.
The man I didn’t know stopped the truck and climbed out. He was a big guy, solid and strong looking. His chest was wide and his arms were muscled, thighs thick in his light-wash denim. The skin exposed beyond his tee shirt was white but deeply tanned, likely from working outside so much. I couldn’t see a whole lot with that hat in the way, but his hair looked like it was light brown, or perhaps it matched his dirty-blond facial hair. His eyes were shadowed beneath the bill of his cap, so I couldn’t make those out either. Figuring I’d probably stared long enough, I forced myself to glance away.
My parents had talked about Mercer being a wonderful employee over the last several years. I knew they thought highly of him—a surrogate son for Amy and Nick Judd to dote on. He apparently helped Joan in the fields but also provided coverage at the Apple House when needed, grading and selling apples and handing out buckets for the u-pick side of the operation.
My brother strolled around the side of the farmhouse. I guessed he’d gotten my luggage sorted.
I stood a little taller as I watched Brady approach the handsome man, who looked to be around my age. They did a familiar hand-slap thing that male friends seemed to be born knowing how to coordinate.
Suddenly my mother and father were by my side without me realizing how they’d gotten there.
“Come say hi,” Mom called across the twenty or so feet separating us from Brady and Mercer.
I smiled as they approached. As Mercer came closer, I was able to see the blue gray of his eyes that I’d been unable to make out before. He smiled too, and I couldn’t help but notice the fullness and shape of his lips beneath his scruffy beard.
Before my parents had a chance to introduce me as Candy, I stuck out my hand and said brightly, “Hi, I’m Candace. You must be the famous Mercer I’ve heard so much about.”
The hand that had been partially extended toward my own halted briefly as Mercer’s expression morphed into one of frowny confusion. But then his big fingers managed to curl around mine, and he gave a warm squeeze.
I kept smiling and shaking as Mercer’s eyes—that cool blend of blue and gray—searched my face. His lips flattened and joined the frowning party his face was currently throwing.
“Did she hit her head while I was gone?” my brother asked from Mercer’s side.
I glanced at Brady. “What?”
He raised expectant eyebrows. “That’s Mercer. Mark Mercer.”
My eyes quickly shot to the man in question. I was still shaking his hand.
“You know Mercer. He was in your grade,” Brady continued. “He went to our high school, doofus. Graduated with you and everything.”
Um, what?
I let my mind drift back to the halls of Kirby Falls High as I took in the handsome face of the not-so-stranger before me. I didn’t remember the name Mercer. And surely I would have remembered seeing this guy. But when I compared his to the faces of the teenagers I’d gone to school with, I came up empty.
“Oh,” I said, like an idiot. My thoughts spun, trying to place the present-tense version...whose hand I was still holding.
I was only twenty-five. High school hadn’t beenthatlong ago. I should really be able to figure this out. Why couldn’t I come up with a single memory of this man—this good-looking, solid, capable presence staring at me very thoughtfully? What was wrong with me?
Quickly, I gave a final squeeze to end the longest handshake in the history of greetings and lied, “Of course! I’m so sorry, Mercer. I must be all muddled from travel.”
I fought a wince as my brother’s eyes went wide in my periphery.
Muddled from travel.
Why had I said that? I wasn’t a Regency romance heroine.
Muddled. Oh, Jesus.
“It’s really good to see you,” I added quickly. My hand felt sweaty with panic. Thank God I’d finally let go of him. “And of course, I’ve heard all about you from Mom and Dad. They just think so highly of you and love having you here at the orchard.”
And then I shut my trap and prayed for a head injury, so I would, at least, have something to blame the memory loss and my sudden nineteenth-century vocabulary on.
Alas. Nothing fell from the sky to put me out of my misery.
