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We moved toward the living room, and I bring wineglasses and a new bottle. “So you’re saying you need to find yourself first before you can give your heart fully to a place or person.”
“Exactly.” She looks at me gratefully. “Kentbury is amazing, but it’s the first town where people have been warm and welcoming. What if there’s somewhere I fit even better that I just haven’t found yet?”
I could argue that there’s no place like my hometown, but that would be biased. I’ve made mistakes before, trying to convince women to stay. This time, I’ll keep my desires to myself. I can enjoy McKay’s company for however long she’s here without expectations. She’s smart, funny, beautiful … it’ll have to be enough.
For now, I just fill our glasses and steer the conversation to lighter topics. The future can wait a little longer.
ChapterTwelve
McKay
The heady scentof fallen leaves and ripe apples envelops me as I step into the orchard. Laughter and lively chatter fill the crisp air while costumed children dart past, faces painted with autumn motifs. The surroundings burst with vivid hues of orange, gold, and brown.
“Ready for the maze?” Bishop’s deep timbre vibrates near my ear, his warm breath on my neck prickling my skin. I turn to face him, the dipping sun framing him in a golden halo, making him seem almost ethereal.
His hand brushes mine, a featherlight touch that sends awareness skittering up my arm. I’m attuned to his every movement. “Lead the way,” I reply, my voice coming out breathy.
Bishop’s fingers entwine with mine, radiating heat that seeps into my skin, grounding me. We approach the looming hedge entrance, and he shoots me a grin that sets butterflies fluttering in my stomach. “Race you to the end?”
I huff a laugh, playfully bumping his shoulder. “You’re on.”
As we weave through the maze, I’m hyperaware of him beside me. Our arms brush occasionally, and he reaches out to sweep back my windswept hair, letting his fingers linger. Each subtle touch conveys longing, an unspoken promise.
The simmering tension thrums between us. I’ve never felt more alive.
After what feels like hours, we finally emerge from the maze, both laughing breathlessly. “That was exhilarating,” I admit, cheeks flushed from the exertion and his intoxicating proximity.
Bishop leans in, his gaze darkening with an emotion I recognize but dare not name aloud. Our moment is broken by the distant peal of children’s laughter, reminding us we’re at a crowded festival. “Hayride next?” he asks, voice a low rumble that thrums through me.
As we climb onto the hayride, families chatter excitedly around us. Bishop and I sit thigh to thigh, the subtle contact igniting a heat more potent than any raging bonfire.
The ride meanders through the orchard, families reaching out to snag ripe apples. When Bishop hands a shiny red apple to a pigtailed little girl, her gleeful squeal makes me laugh. He seems to have a soft spot for kids that shows in the gentle, attentive way he interacts with them.
I sneak a glance at his handsome profile, backlit by the setting sun. The image sears itself into my mind: his windswept hair, day-old stubble, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
As the ride ambles on, our fingers entwine loosely, hidden in the hay. No words are needed. The connection between us conveys everything left unsaid for now.
“There’s a certain magic about fall, don’t you think?” I muse, trying to temper the building tension.
Bishop leans in, his lips a hair’s breadth from my ear. “The magic isn’t in the season, McKay. It’s in the company.”
My breath hitches at his meaningful words, my pulse quickening.
We move from the bustling grounds to an open space lit by twinkling fairy lights. Long tables display amber-filled glasses, each labeled with a distinct cider name. Dusk lends an intimate, ethereal feel.
“Ever tried hard cider?” Bishop asks playfully, the soft lighting accentuating his sharp features.
I nod, lips suddenly dry. “A few times. But I have a feeling tonight will be different.”
His eyes lock onto mine, dark and knowing. “I’ll make sure of that.”
We approach the first table, and I watch, amused, as Bishop puts on an exaggerated serious face—sniffing the cider critically, swirling it, then taking a careful sip. His shift from playful to pensive contemplation makes me laugh. “It seems the cider passes the Bishop test,” I tease.
His lips quirk up. “Just wait till you try it.”
I take a sip, the flavors bursting—sweet yet tart, with a sharp bite. “Wow,” I murmur appreciatively.
We make our way through the tables, each cider offering a unique experience—some fruity and honeyed, others dry with an earthy finish. With every taste, we share impressions, sometimes agreeing, sometimes debating the notes.
