Page 9 of Falling for Cocky Cole (Shared by the Carter Brothers #2)

COLE

" W e'd better finish up that cider," Tom says, pushing away from the table after we've demolished the apple pie his wife brought out for dessert.

I've eaten more than I should have, but everything was so damn good I couldn't help myself.

Maggie glances at the clock on the wall and makes a little sound.

"Our show starts in ten minutes, Tom," she says, and I can tell this is a ritual for them—dinner, then evening television.

"I can take care of the cider myself, Mr. Walker," I offer, wiping my mouth with a napkin. "You've already shown me the basics."

Tom looks at me, considering. "You sure about that? It's a bit of a process for your first time solo."

"Tom, our show," Maggie reminds him gently.

Tom nods. "Right. Well..." He turns to Ivy, who's stacking plates. "Ivy, you mind helping Cole out? You know the press better than anyone."

Ivy pauses, her eyes meeting mine briefly before looking back at her father. "Sure," she says, though I detect a hint of reluctance.

I try not to smile too much.

We walk in silence toward the barn, the crickets chirping around us in the early evening. The air has that crispness to it that only comes in mid-September—not quite summer anymore, not quite fall yet. The perfect in-between.

"Beautiful night," I say, glancing up at the darkening sky where stars are just beginning to appear.

"Mm-hmm," Ivy murmurs. Her arms are crossed, and she's walking a careful distance from me.

"Are the evenings always this nice here? I mean, at the orchard specifically?" I'm making small talk, and we both know it.

Ivy looks at me sideways. "You grew up fifteen minutes away, Cole. The weather's the same here as at Carter Ridge."

I laugh. "Fair point. Just trying to break the ice."

We reach the barn, and Ivy pushes the door open, flipping on the lights. The old building looks different now—warmer, more intimate in the yellow glow of the overhead bulbs. Half-processed apples wait for us by the press, and Ivy immediately moves toward them, rolling up her sleeves.

"Let's get this done," she says, but there's less edge to her voice now.

I follow her lead, picking up where her father and I left off.

We work side by side, rinsing and quartering the apples before dropping the pieces into the press.

The air fills with that sharp, fresh scent—clean and sweet all at once.

I watch Ivy's hands as she works, her fingers smeared with bits of apple.

She's done this a thousand times before, her movements quick and efficient.

Yet there's something different about her now. She drops an apple, fumbles with the knife, keeps glancing at me when she thinks I'm not looking. I'm making her nervous, and I kind of like it.

When she starts working the press, I step closer, covering her hand with mine on the handle.

"You need to keep it steady," I tell her what I learned just an hour ago, my chest nearly touching her back. "If you go too fast, you'll make a mess."

She turns her head, and suddenly our faces are inches apart. I can see the gold flecks in her blue eyes, and smell the apple on her breath.

"I've been doing this since ninth grade, Cole," she says, rolling her eyes and pulling her hand away from mine.

"Sorry," I grin, stepping back. "Thought you might have forgotten after years of city living."

"You don't forget how to use a cider press," she says, turning the handle with expert precision. "It's like riding a bicycle."

I watch the amber juice flow from the press into the waiting bucket. "Speaking of bicycles," I say, remembering something. "You used to have a blue one, right? You rode it everywhere one summer."

Ivy looks surprised. "You remember that?"

"Of course. You loved that thing. Birthday present from your dad, wasn't it?"

A smile spreads across her face. "Yeah, it was. I can't believe you remember."

"I notice things," I say simply. "Do you still have it?"

"It's probably in the shed somewhere."

"We should go biking sometime," I suggest, taking my turn at the press. The rhythm of the work is hypnotic—press down, turn, release. Press down, turn, release. "I've got a trail bike. There are some beautiful routes around Carter Ridge."

"That sounds... nice," she says, and I can tell she means it.

We fall into a comfortable silence, working together.

There's something sensual about the whole process—the sweet smell of the apples, the juice running over the edges of the press, the repeated motion of the handle.

With each turn, I'm aware of Ivy next to me, of her breath, of the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

"So," I say after a while, "what's your plan? For the future, I mean."

She looks up, surprised by the question. "I don't know, honestly. I'm not really... planning right now."

"No plan is a plan too," I say.

She shakes her head. "It's not like that. I just..." She sighs. "I don't want to set myself up to fail again."

I stop working and look at her directly. "You didn't fail, Ivy."

"I came back to my hometown with my tail between my legs after my job fell apart. That's not exactly success."

"You graduated from university and got a design job in Portland. Do you know how many people in Silvercreek never make it out? I've always been proud of you for going so far."

Her eyes meet mine, and I see the struggle there, the tears she's holding back. "Thanks, Cole."

I mean every word. She has no idea how often I've thought about her over the years, wondering what she was doing, if she was happy, if she'd ever come back.

"Take your time to figure things out," I tell her, resuming our work. "No rush. You'll always have a place here in Silvercreek." I hesitate, then add, "You can be Emily's nanny as long as you want. Or... you could work for Carter Ridge."

Her eyebrows lift. "What?"

"We could use a creative designer for our marketing. Brochures, fliers, welcome packets, website, social media—the whole thing. If you're interested, I can talk to my brothers about it."

She stares at me, clearly trying to determine if I'm serious. "Are you just saying that because..."

"Because what?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"Because of whatever this is between us?"

I shake my head. "No. I mean, that's a bonus." I smile. "But we legitimately need someone with your skills. Think about it. No pressure."

She looks thoughtful. "Thanks. I will."

We finish processing the apples, strain and bottle the juice, and bag the leftover mash. Half the juice will be sold at Saturday's farmers' market, and the rest will be fermented into hard cider. We clean the equipment thoroughly and wash our hands at the old sink in the corner of the barn.

When we're done, Ivy grabs two clean mason jars from a shelf and fills them with fresh cider.

"We should at least try our handiwork," she says, handing me a jar. "Quality control."

I take the jar, our fingers brushing. "To quality control," I say, and we clink our jars together before taking a sip.