Page 32 of Manors & Mischief

She lifts her brows but goes to hand me her phone anyway. At the last second, she pulls it away. “You’re not going to flush it down the toilet or anything, are you?”

“No, because then I’d just have to fix the toilet after that.”

We smirk at each other, and then she sits on the railing, hands in her lap. I snap a couple of pictures then tell her to lean against the column and look out at the trees. She does so, the sun glinting off her hair. I crouch down and take the photo. It’s absolutely perfect. Beyond her, the sun’s rays are like streams through the canopy of trees, like individual beams of light sent to spotlight the fallen leaves on the grass, which is still green with life.

“Now that is a picture,” I tell her, handing her phone back.

She scans over it, her eyes widening a little. “Great job.” She quickly looks at the rest then goes back to the last one. “I’ll definitely send this one. It captures everything about Harvest Falls.”

“It captures everything about you in Harvest Falls,” I correct.

She puts her phone away, and we start eating again in easy silence. After a few moments, she says, “What were they setting up for in the middle of town?”

Let’s see. It’s Thursday. “The farmer’s market,” I tell her. Her eyes light up, and I can’t help myself. “Don’t say you don’t have farmer’s markets where you’re from.”

“We do… But I’ve never been to one in Harvest Falls. What will they have there?”

“Pumpkins, baked goods, doughnuts. Bea will be there with her coffee, cider, the last remnants of produce for the year.”

“Did you say cider?”

I nod.

“Real cider? Not the crap from the chain grocery stores?”

“And local, too. Harvest Falls Orchard. They’ve been open for almost a hundred years.”

She stamps her feet and squeals. “Oh my God. I’m going. What time does it start?”

I smile at her, then check my watch. “In about an hour. I’ll take you.”

“No,” she says quickly. “You don’t have to.”

“It sounds like you’ve never had cider before, and I’ve got to see this.”

“I’ve had cider before,” she says, doing that thing she does where she tilts her chin in the air. “I just don’t want you to make fun of me and ruin the experience.”

She takes a bite out of her sandwich, waiting a moment before nodding. It’s a common thing people do after getting a taste of Ruffo’s, the finest sandwich shop in town. They’ve been around for as long as I can remember, passed down through generations.

I often wished my family had something like that. Something to pass to me that had meaning. I have no interest in politics. In fact, holding any type of office sounds like a nightmare to me. I’m much better with my hands.

“I promise to play nice.” I voice what I’ve said to myself for most of the week. I’m stubborn, but I’m not stubborn enough to know when multiple people tell me to get a grip that I’ve probably been out of line.

We eat mostly in silence, staring out at the crisp fall day. Picturesque. Cozy. At the edge of town like this, you could almost convince yourself that the manor was smack in the middle of the country. But this location is better. In the country enough to have some land and maybe a bit of privacy, but also close enough where you can still walk into town. You can’t get that feel in most places, but Harvest Falls is one of them.

After lunch, I clean up the worksite, taking care of my paint brushes and drop cloths, then I put the paint back down in the basement along with the extra wood. I’m in the middle of doing a once-over of my work to make sure everything is perfect for the Haunted History Tour when Ember steps out of the house.

She nearly takes my breath away. A forest green sweater boasting an oversized turtleneck paired with a pair of jeans and a brown boot. Two simple rings grace her right hand, glinting when she walks. Her hair lies in loose waves to her shoulders. She’ll be better dressed than three quarters of the people there. Maybe all of the people there.

She waves and takes the steps down to meet me. The eagerness wafting off her is something else. It nearly makes me smile. Nearly. If it weren’t for the nagging feeling tugging at my belly, I could. Something that says she’s different. Not another tourist, and yet, not another woman who grew up in this town alongside me, where we know each other’s business all the way back to grade school.

I peer down at my work jeans. At least these don’t have holes in them, but there are paint splotches and I’m pretty sure there’s a hole in my shirt somewhere. I snagged it on an errant nail on the porch.

“Are you taking me to this farmer’s market or what?” she asks, eyes gleaming, which I know has nothing to do with me and everything to do with cider.

She doesn’t give me a once-over. She just stares into my eyes expectantly. “Let’s do it,” I tell her. Screw what I’m wearing.

I start to walk away, but she stops me. “I’m warning you, though, Devon Lachey. If you turn on that attitude again, I’m out.”