Page 107 of Falling for Mr. October

Rhett, true to his nature, replies in a condescending, shitty tone. “That wasn’t the offer.”

I take a closer look at the kid, who can’t be more than eleven or possibly twelve yet doesn’t seem to be here with a parent. He’s wearing worn sneakers that look too small, and his shirt has been through the washer so many times the lettering is peeling off.

I step forward without thinking. “All right. I’ll honor the deal.”

The kid lights up and rushes over to me, his hand already out for a shake. “Thank you, Mr. Chef. I really appreciate it. I have Venmo and Cash App.”

I can’t help but laugh. I admire the kid’s hustle. “Venmo will do just fine.”

I transfer the money to him then and there, and the kid’s gone before I can ask him any questions or compliment his strategy for securing the win.

When I turn back, Bianca’s waiting behind me with Emily.

“Do you know that kid?” I ask.

Emily bites her lip. “Yeah, sort of. That’s Whit.”

“Sort of?” Bianca repeats.

“He lives on my block, and he’s stolen from the bookstore a few times.”

“You mean you’ve let him,” Bianca says fondly.

Emily shrugs without any self-consciousness. “I’ve occasionally left out books he might find interesting. But I always put the money back in the till, so Mr. Campbell’s got nothing to complain about.”

“Are his parents good people?” I ask, remembering the wear on the kid’s clothes.

“They’re not bad,” she says. “But he’s a foster kid. He’s not theirs, and they don’t treat him like he is.”

The sadness in her voice reminds me of what Bianca told me. How Emily herself was a foster kid.

“Didn’t you say Kitty’s fund was for kids too?” I ask Bianca. “We should carry on her legacy by covering the whole spectrum of ages here in Apple Ridge.”

Bianca smiles at me in a way she hasn’t before—in a way I’d really like to deserve.

“You’re all right, Mr. October.”

Back at the farmhouse, Bianca and I stay up late having a final drink—apple cider with a splash of whiskey so old it’s probably no longer alcoholic. I make a mental note to buy some more.

Our feet brush against each other beneath the table, and I spend so much time staring at her, I could probably write an essay worshipping every feature.

I want to ask her to share my bed tonight, though I know it would mean something if I do. We grew closer today. Maybe I’ll be a sentimental soul and say the apple was what did it—crunching into it together like some kind of sacrament or shared sin. All I know is that the feelings I have for Bianca are not just lust, and those feelings will only deepen the more time we spend together.

I’m surprised by how little the thought bothers me.

After Bianca gives a jaw-cracking yawn, she puts both of our cups in the dishwasher and turns it on. Leaning back against the counter, facing me, she studies me for a moment before saying, “I suppose I’d better go to bed.”

“Are you afraid you’ll turn into a pumpkin?” I ask, my blood pumping faster through my veins.

“You caught me,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Come on. We both need to get some sleep. Alone.”

So she’s made her decision. Maybe she’s been mulling it over the entire time we’ve been down here, trying to figure out whether I’m worth the risk.

I probably seem like a bad bet to her. I’m a man who can’t plan his future or even read a single book about it. I don’t blame her for not wanting to stake a claim on me, but I’m sorry for it. Despite everything, I want to claim her for my own.

“Will you dream of me, Bianca?” I tease.

“Probably,” she says with a smile that’s half regretful.