Page 39 of Trick or Tease

I groaned. “I was eight.”

“And crying like a baby until your dad came with the bolt cutters.”

“I was not crying.”

“You absolutely were. Tears and snot everywhere.” She laughed. “It was actually kind of sweet. You were so embarrassed, but your dad just scooped you up afterward and bought you ice cream.”

I remembered that day, actually. I remembered her and Billy doing their best to save me. If I was eight, she had been five. Even back then she tried to protect me.

It meant a lot.

Within minutes, people started trickling over to our booth, drawn by the bright display of candy and preserves. I braced myself for the inevitable interrogation.

“Garrett! Look at you!” I wasn’t great with names. But I knew she worked at the post office. “I heard you’re some big shot lawyer now. Making millions, I bet!”

I opened my mouth to correct her when Sabrina jumped in smoothly.

“He’s been so generous helping us get ready for our Grand Opening next weekend,” she said, handing the woman a sample of candy. “The Hogan’s Hill Farm Fall Festival is going to be incredible this year. You should bring your grandkids!”

Her eyes lit up. “Yeah?”

“Pumpkin chunkin’, corn maze, hot cider,” Sabrina rattled off enthusiastically. “And the best part—we’re doing a haunted hayride up to the old Hogan house on the hill. It’s going to be perfect for families.”

I wasn’t aware that last bit had been approved, but then again, I didn’t know much about any of it.

“Oh my stars, the grandkids would love that! When did you say it was?”

I watched in amazement as Sabrina expertly steered the conversation away from my personal life and toward the farm event. Within five minutes, the woman had bought three jars of apple butter and promised to bring her entire family.

The pattern repeated itself over and over. Someone would approach with questions about my fancy city life, and Sabrina was right there.

Around eleven, other vendors started making the rounds to our booth, carrying plates and baskets like some kind of impromptu potluck was breaking out.

George from the bakery booth brought over a plate of his famous cinnamon rolls, still warm from whatever portable oven setup he had going. “For the hardworking young people,” he said with a wink, setting them down next to our candy display.

I bit into one and nearly groaned with pleasure. The cinnamon and sugar melted on my tongue, and the dough was so soft it practically dissolved in my mouth. “These are incredible,” I said.

“Secret ingredient,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Cream cheese in the dough.”

Someone from the honey stand wandered over with a jar of something golden and thick. “Thought you might want to try this year’s clover honey,” he said, unscrewing the lid. “Best batch I’ve had in years.”

I dipped the little wooden stick he offered into the honey and tasted it. It was nothing like the processed stuff from the grocery store. His variety had layers of flavor, floral and complex and somehow tasting exactly like summer smelled.

“That’s amazing,” I said, genuinely impressed. “The difference is incredible.”

He beamed. “That’s what happens when you don’t filter all the good stuff out. Your dad always said I made the best honey in three counties.”

Before I knew it, I’d sampled half the market. Maple cookies from the woman who ran the yarn shop, some kind of spiced apple bread from the church booth, and a slice of pumpkin pie that was so good I actually closed my eyes when I tasted it.

“Jesus,” I muttered around a mouthful of pie. “This is incredible.”

“She’s been making that same recipe for forty years,” Sabrina said, watching me with amusement. “She won the county fair with it six years running.”

I polished off the slice and immediately felt guilty. “I’m going to have to run an extra five miles when I get back to the city just to work off this morning.”

“Oh no,” Sabrina said with mock concern. “You ate some delicious homemade food. How terrible. Your eight-pack abs will only be a six-pack.”

She noticed my body. I liked that.