Page 3 of Falling for Cocky Cole (Shared by the Carter Brothers #2)

IVY

T he cinnamon scent from the bakery stall drifts across the farmer's market, mingling with the earthy smell of fresh produce and the sweet tang of our apples.

I weigh another bag, tie it with practiced fingers, and hand it to the elderly woman who's bought from us every Saturday for as long as I can remember.

"Thank you, Mrs. Henderson," I say with a cheerful voice.

The morning sun filters through the canvas of our tent, casting dappled light across the red and green mounds of fruit before me.

The Silvercreek Farmer's Market pulses with weekend energy—locals chatting with neighbors they've known all their lives, tourists in hiking boots and floppy hats searching for authentic small-town charm.

The donut stand near us has been frying cinnamon sugar treats since dawn, and the line hasn't shortened since.

Across the way, a man in overalls sells honey in jars that catch the sunlight like amber.

"Need another bag of Galas?" I ask a young mother juggling a toddler on her hip. She nods, and I reach for our orchard’s paper bag, the one with the hand-drawn apple tree my dad designed fifteen years ago and refuses to update.

Behind me, Dad grunts as he hauls another crate from the truck. His weathered hands—permanently stained from years of harvest—grip the wooden slats with practiced ease. He nods at a passing customer but keeps moving, efficient as always.

"Now, Mrs. Parker," my mother says to our most dedicated pie-baker, "the secret is using two varieties. A mix of tart and sweet." Mom's voice has that patient teacher quality she reserves for customers. "The Jonathans give you that bite, but add a few Honeycrisps for depth."

Mrs. Parker leans in conspiratorially. "Is that why I can never quite match yours, Maggie?"

Mom winks. "That and fifteen years of practice."

I smile to myself. Mom pretends her recipes are common knowledge, but she guards her actual techniques like state secrets. Mrs. Parker has been trying to crack the code of Walker apple pie for a decade, never realizing Mom's leaving out at least three crucial steps.

The morning rush ebbs after eleven, leaving me with unwelcome space to think. My hands stay busy rearranging displays, but my mind drifts to Wednesday night. To Cole. To the way his fingers traced patterns on my skin like he was memorizing me. To the look in his eyes when he?—

I shake my head. Stop it, Ivy.

It's been almost a day since I sent that text telling him not to contact me again. One day of silence. He listened. He actually listened, which is what I wanted. Right?

I stare at the pyramids of apples before me, suddenly unsure. The Cole Carter I knew growing up never respected boundaries. The Cole who winked at every woman in Silvercreek, who turned flirting into an Olympic sport—that Cole would have texted anyway, would have charmed and pushed and persisted.

But he didn't.

The thought sends an unexpected pang through my chest. Maybe I was wrong not to listen to Mom's warnings. Maybe he really is the heartbreaker everyone says—get what he wants, then move on without a backward glance. One text, and I'm already history.

Damn it. I miss him. The admission feels like defeat. I miss his cocky smile and the way his voice gets raspy when he's close to my ear. I miss how his hands felt—burning against my skin, gentle but sure. I miss?—

Shit. I force my attention to the guitarist by the fountain. He's singing "Take Me Home, Country Roads," and a small crowd hums along. I join in under my breath, letting the familiar melody wash away thoughts of amber eyes and skilled hands.

"Good morning, Mrs. Walker."

The voice cuts through the market noise like a blade through butter. Deep, confident, unmistakable. I freeze, apple in hand, not daring to turn around.

"Cole Carter." My mother's tone is carefully neutral. "What brings you to our humble market? I don't recall seeing you here before."

I slowly pivot, praying my face isn't as red as it feels.

Cole stands at the edge of our tent, looking unfairly good in a faded henley and jeans that fit exactly right.

His chestnut hair is slightly tousled, like he ran his fingers through it on the drive over.

When our eyes meet, his lips curve into that half-smile that makes my stomach flip.

"Just looking to buy some apples," he says, never breaking eye contact with me.

"Is that so?" Mom's eyes narrow to slits.

"Morning, Ivy," Cole says, ignoring my mother's skepticism.

I clear my throat, willing my voice to sound normal. "Hi. Didn't know you shopped at farmers' markets."

His smile widens. "There's a lot you don't know about me."

The air between us feels charged, loaded with the weight of unspoken words and shared memories. Mom's gaze darts between us, her expression calculating.

"What apples are you looking for?" she asks Cole, breaking the tension.

He hesitates. "What about some Fuji?"

Mom's eyebrow rises. "It's too early for Fujis. They won't be ready for another month."

"How come they've got them in Safeway year-round?" He genuinely looks confused.

Mom rolls her eyes. "Because those are from storage. They were harvested last year." Her tone takes on that teacher quality again. "The apples we're selling now are fresh from our farm."

Cole's mouth falls open. "Are you telling me I've been eating apples that have been in a fridge for a year?"

"Industrial cold storage, but yes." Mom shrugs.

"I wish I'd known that sooner."

"I wish you had too," Mom mutters, and I bite back a laugh.

Cole recovers quickly, nodding at our display. "So what have you got now? Gala, Jonathan..." He peers at the labels. "McIntosh, Honeycrisp, Red Delicious, Golden Delicious?"

"That's right." Mom's tone softens slightly—the way it always does when someone shows genuine interest in our farm. "Galas are sweet and crisp, good for eating fresh. Jonathans have more tartness—excellent for baking. McIntosh break down easily, so they're perfect for applesauce."

Cole listens with unexpected attention, nodding along. "And Honeycrisp? Those are the expensive ones at the store."

"For good reason," Mom says. "Juicy, sweet-tart balance, stays crisp for weeks. Best eating apple, in my opinion."

"Red Delicious?"

"Looks better than it tastes. But people buy them because they're pretty."

I watch this exchange with growing bewilderment. What is he doing? Cole Carter, asking my mother detailed questions about apple varieties? The same Cole who once said the only difference between apples was their color?

He nods thoughtfully. "I'll take some of each," he says, reaching for bags. "A few pounds of the Galas, Jonathans, Honeycrisps..."

As Mom rings him up, Dad returns from the truck, arms loaded with our homemade apple cider.

"Well, if it isn't a Carter boy," Dad says, setting down his load. "Cole, right? The middle one?"

Cole grins. "That's me, Mr. Walker. Need a hand with those?"

Dad looks surprised but nods. "Got a few more crates in the truck if you're offering."

"Happy to help." Cole sets his bags down by our table and follows Dad toward the parking lot.

I stare after them, completely lost. What game is Cole playing? And why does it make my heart beat faster?

The moment Cole disappears with Dad, Mom turns to me with laser-focused eyes. "That boy didn't come here for apples," she says, keeping her voice low even though there's no one near our stall. I busy myself with rearranging a display that doesn't need rearranging, avoiding her gaze.

"What do you mean?" My voice sounds unnaturally high, even to my own ears.

"Ivy Rose Walker." Mom uses my full name, a sure sign I'm not fooling anyone. "That man just spent forty dollars on apples he doesn't know how to eat. He's never set foot in this market before today. And he can't seem to take his eyes off you."

I shrug, feeling heat creep up my neck. "Maybe he's expanding his horizons. Learning about local food."

Mom snorts. "What happened between you two?"

My fingers fumble with an apple, nearly dropping it. "Nothing," I say too quickly.

She leans closer, lowering her voice further. "Listen to me. Cole Carter is charming—I'll give him that. But he doesn't stick, honey. You know his reputation in this town." Her eyes soften. "I don't want you getting hurt."

"Mom, I'm fine." I stack apples with unnecessary force. "Nothing's going on."

She studies my face for a long moment, and I wonder what she sees there.

Before she can press further, Cole and Dad return, each carrying a wooden crate filled with fresh produce.

They set them on the ground beside our table, and Cole immediately starts arranging apples on our display with surprising care.

"These Jonathan ones go here, right?" he asks, looking to me for confirmation.

I nod, watching his hands—the same hands that traced patterns on my skin Wednesday night—now gently handling our family's apples. The contrast makes my chest tight.

"One more load," Dad says cheerfully. "Cole here's been telling me about some improvements they've made to the hiking trails around Carter Ridge."

Cole flashes that easy smile. "Nothing major. Just clearer markers and a couple new lookout points."

Dad claps him on the shoulder as they head back to the truck. I feel Mom's eyes on me again and keep my eyes on a speck of dirt on the table.

When they return with jars of our homemade cider, Dad pulls a paper cup from under the table and pours a sample for Cole. "Try this. Fresh pressed last weekend."

Cole takes a sip, and his eyebrows shoot up. "This is incredible, Mr. Walker." He takes another drink, larger this time. "Seriously, this is the real deal."

Dad beams with pride. "We use a mix of varieties—sweetness from the early Galas balances the tart from those early Macs." He leans against the table. "Got an old-fashioned press out at the orchard. Nothing fancy, but it does the job."

"I'd love to see it in action sometime," Cole says, and the sincerity in his voice surprises me. This doesn't sound like the casual flirtation I associate with Cole Carter.

"Anytime," Dad says, oblivious to Mom's pointed look. "Season's just getting started. We'll be pressing every weekend through October."

Cole finishes his cider and glances around our stall, taking in the full range of products displayed. I feel Mom's scrutiny of him, her eyes narrowed as if trying to decode his intentions. I avoid meeting either of their gazes, suddenly finding the pattern of the tablecloth fascinating.

"Are all these homemade?" Cole asks, gesturing to our spread of goods: jars of cider, containers of apple butter and jam, bags of apple chips, caramel apples wrapped in cellophane, mini pies in cardboard boxes, muffins, scones, and little sachets of dried apple and cinnamon blend.

"I make most of them," Mom admits. "The baked goods are fresh this morning."

Cole picks up a jar of apple butter, studying the hand-lettered label.

"We could really use products like these at Carter Ridge.

" His voice shifts slightly, taking on a more professional tone.

"Our guests are always asking for local touches.

We could add your cider to our breakfast menu, stock the apple butter in our dining room. .."

He sets down the jar and continues, enthusiasm building. "And these mini pies would be perfect for our welcome baskets. Plus, we could use your fresh apples in those baskets too. Something a bit more special than what we get from the distributor."

Dad's face lights up. "Now that's an interesting idea."

Mom's expression remains carefully neutral, but I notice the slight softening around her eyes. Before she can respond, a group of tourists approaches our stall, exclaiming over the display.

"Look at those caramel apples!" a woman in a floppy sun hat says. "Do you make these yourselves?"

For the next fifteen minutes, we're all busy helping customers. To my surprise, Cole doesn't step back or leave. Instead, he seamlessly integrates himself into our operation, talking to customers with easy charm, recommending varieties based on what he just learned from Mom.

"The Honeycrisps are worth the extra dollar," I hear him tell a hesitant couple. "Trust me, I just tried them for the first time. Game-changer."

He passes out sample cups of cider, telling everyone it's the best in town. When a woman eyes Mom's mini pies, Cole jumps in. "Mrs. Walker is a legendary baker in Silvercreek. Those won't last the drive home if you open the box."

When he helps an elderly customer carry her bags to her car, Mom leans toward me.

"Didn't realize he was part of the sales team now," she says, but there's less bite in her tone than I expected.

"I can tell him to leave if it bothers you," I offer, though the thought of Cole leaving makes my stomach twist in a way I don't want to examine.

Mom shakes her head slightly. "Could use the help, to be honest."

I glance at her, surprised to see her expression has softened. When Cole returns, smiling widely after apparently charming the elderly customer, Mom actually nods at him in acknowledgment.

I roll my eyes. "Looks like you can't resist Cocky Cole's charm either."

"It has nothing to do with charm," she insists, straightening a stack of pie boxes. "It's business, that's all."

"Sure," I say. "If you say so."

While I'm relieved that Mom seems willing to give Cole a chance, confusion washes over me.

I told myself the Cole from Wednesday night was an illusion—a practiced routine from a man who knows exactly what to say to get women into bed.

I was willing to believe he isn't the irresponsible heartbreaker the town thinks he is, but I wasn't prepared for this version of him either—helping my parents, showing genuine interest in our products, making actual business suggestions that could help our struggling farm.

It was supposed to be a fling. One night, no strings, nothing complicated.

But Cole is acting like there's something more serious between us, something worth pursuing.

The thought both thrills and terrifies me.

Because if Wednesday night wasn't just another conquest for him—if he actually means what he's saying—then I'm in far more danger of getting hurt than I realized.