Page 38 of Fall Love

“Get out of here with that thumb and your hand holding.” She turns toward the orchard, slips her hands in her pockets, and steps forward.

And just like that night we met, the draw to follow her is strong.

CHAPTER 14

[Neve]

Ican honestly say I don’t think I’ve ever been apple picking. The only time I’ve ever come to Over the Hill Farm was for pumpkins, which they have in abundance, even if it seems early for the Halloween staple. Still, I feel almost giddy thinking about getting the traditional symbol of fall and one day carving it with Little Wrench.

“Don’t you just love fall?” I sigh as we slowly pass through the display of pumpkins. A pile on a trailer hitched to a tractor. Another collection of white, green, and yellow ones creatively stacked in a silo-like caged pen.

“I’ve always been partial to summer,” Tate admits. “It’s when my parents would ship me off to Lovewell.”

“So you are a flatlander,” I tease. A person not born or bred in Maine.

“Guilty, I guess.” He slips his hands into his jean pockets as we make our way toward a barn-shaped shed where tickets are sold for activities on the farm. “I was born and raised in Connecticut. Went to college in New York City and stayed there.” He squints, gazing ahead of us. “But I loved my summers in Lovewell.”

We pause at the end of the short line, and he continues. “I always struggled with belonging here. I mean, my family has roots here, and I felt like I was part of that history, making me more than just summer folk. But I’m also not from here, so I’m in this weird limbo when it comes to Lovewell Landing.”

His brows crease like he’s truly puzzled by this in-between state.

“Those summers were some of the best parts of my life.” He sighs, melancholy filling his tone.

“I’ve lived here my entire life. Never wanted to live anywhere else,” I proudly state as we move forward.

Tate pulls out his wallet, and I let him because this was his idea. But it also strikes me that this suddenly feels like a date. Something I haven’t been on in . . . decades.

I don’t make arrangements to meet someone. I don’t share dinners or activities. I meet a guy at a party or a bar, maybe through a mutual acquaintance, and we hook up. Even the short-term relationships I’ve had didn’t involve formality. It was more like I’ll be at such-and-such, want to meet me there? Then one thing would lead to another.

My shoulders sag. I pride myself on keeping my distance, but the reminder of all those open-ended situations weighs heavier on me than my distended belly.

“Two for apple picking,” Tate says through the window to the woman on the other side. He turns toward me. “Want to walk or take the hayride?”

“Hayride.” My voice lifts, almost too eager for something I haven’t done since I was a child.

Tate is given two medium-sized bags and some tickets. Rolling the bags, he tucks them in his back pocket. Then he holds up the tickets. “Hayride, it is.”

Over the Hill Farm has several acres of apple trees. They also have a sunflower field, that they made into a maze. It’s not uncommon to grow pumpkins underneath apple trees, something this farm has mastered, but the you-pick section does not have any pumpkins beneath them. As we head to the designated hayride entrance, there’s a petting zoo across the barnyard. Old tractors, painted with vibrant colors, offer photo opportunities. A giant cornfield hosts another maze.

The farm was rejuvenated when two older women took over the place. Because of their age, they renamed the location, Over the Hill Farm, but they’ve proven you’re never too old for a fresh start, or improvement.

As the industrial tractor pulls up with a trailer of hay bales lining the outer edge, Tate sets his hand on my back, leading me forward and then helping me climb the rickety stairs.

“You gonna be okay, little lady?” the female tractor driver asks me, as she glances at my belly. “Don’t know much about delivering humans, but I’ve delivered calves before.”

She laughs, hearty and deep, confident she could deliver a human when I most definitely do not want to find out if she can.

“I think I’ll be okay.” I take a seat on a pale-golden bale. Tate sits beside me. He stretches his arm casually behind me on the metal safety rail around the trailer. His fingertips brush over my shoulder, and as I glance at where he just touched me, a small group of children and their parents climb onto the hayride. The suddenly crowded space causes me to scoot closer to Tate.

His thigh presses against mine. His hand wraps around my shoulder. “You sure this is okay?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” I sound like a buzzing bee, all hyperaware of his closeness, making my heart flutter.

“This might jostle us a little bit.” He means the trailer without shock absorption and the rugged trail terrain.

“I’ll be fine.” But with the first lurch of the tractor, my hand falls to Tate’s thigh, gripping it to steady myself as I bump into his side. He shifts, like he’ll take more of my weight if needed, and I instinctually set a hand under my belly.

It isn’t until we stop at the official you-pick orchard, and I exit the hayride with the aid of Tate, that the baby goes crazy.