Apple Pie Promises (The Alphabet Sweethearts #1)

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Tessa

T he morning mist still clings to the mountains as Hale's truck winds up the narrow road to Highland Orchards. The heater fights against the October chill, and I wrap my hands around my travel mug of coffee, sneaking glances at his profile. He's focused on driving, one hand resting loosely on the wheel, the other wrapped around his own mug. Black coffee, no sugar, because of course it is.

"You're staring," he says without looking at me.

Heat rushes to my cheeks. "I'm not staring. I'm observing. For design purposes."

One eyebrow lifts slightly. "Design purposes?"

"Absolutely. The way the sunrise hits your scowl is very aesthetically interesting."

That gets me a side-eye, but I swear I see his mouth twitch. "I don't scowl."

"You're literally scowling right now."

"This is my normal face."

"That's even worse," I say, and I'm rewarded with what might almost be a chuckle.

The truck bumps over a cattle guard, and I grab the dashboard to steady myself. "So, walking me through different apple varieties is part of our 'strictly practical' lessons?"

"Knowing your ingredients is fundamental." He turns onto a gravel drive lined with gnarled apple trees. "You can't make a good pie with mediocre apples."

"I don't know. Add enough cinnamon..."

"No."

"You're no fun."

"So I've been told." He parks near a weathered barn and kills the engine. "Ready for Apple Varieties 101?"

"Do I get a grade at the end?"

He opens his door, but not before I catch that almost-smile again. "Depends on how many times you mention cinnamon."

The orchard is beautiful in the early morning light. Rows of trees stretch toward the mountains, their branches heavy with fruit. The air is crisp and sweet, and somewhere nearby, a rooster crows.

Hale leads me down a row of trees, and I notice he walks slower than usual, matching my pace. "These are Honeycrisp," he says, reaching up to pluck an apple. His flannel shirt rides up slightly, revealing a strip of skin above his jeans, and I quickly look away. "Good eating apples, but too watery for pie."

He hands me the apple, his callused fingers brushing against mine. That same spark of electricity I felt in the store shoots through me, and from the way he pulls back quickly, I think he feels it too.

I take a bite to cover my reaction. "Oh wow," I say, surprised by the burst of flavor. "That's amazing."

He's watching me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle. "The cold nights make them sweeter." He clears his throat and starts walking again. "Come on. The pie apples are up here."

We spend the next hour wandering through the orchard as Hale introduces me to varieties I've never heard of. Not only Northern Spy, but also Bramley, Rhode Island Greening, and more. His knowledge is impressive, and something about the way he talks about them makes my heart do funny things in my chest.

"The trick is mixing varieties," he explains, reaching up to test the firmness of a particularly large apple. "You want some that'll hold their shape and some that'll cook down more."

I try to focus on the apples and not on the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders as he reaches up. "Like complimentary colors in design," I say. "Different elements working together."

He looks at me then, really looks at me, and something warm unfurls in my stomach. "Exactly like that."

We're standing closer than we need to be, I realize suddenly. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes, smell the coffee on his breath.

A branch snaps somewhere nearby and we both step back. Hale runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up in ways that should look ridiculous but somehow don't.

"These," he says gruffly, moving to another tree. "Baldwin apples. They're?—"

"Let me guess—good for pie?"

"Smart aleck." But there's no heat in it. He reaches for an apple, and I do too, our hands meeting around the same piece of fruit. Neither of us lets go immediately.

"Sorry," I murmur, but I don't move away.

His thumb brushes against my wrist, so lightly I might have imagined it. "We should..." He clears his throat. "We should check the Winesaps."

"Hale?" I wait until he looks at me. "Thank you for this. For teaching me. I know you probably have better things to do than spend your morning explaining apples to a hopeless baker."

Something softens in his expression. "You're not hopeless. You're..."

"A disaster?"

"Enthusiastic," he says diplomatically. "Though you are the only person I've ever met who managed to get flour in their ear."

I reach up self-consciously to touch my ear, and he laughs, the sound rich and unexpected and beautiful.

"Not now," he says, stepping closer. "Here." His hand comes up, gentle fingers brushing my earlobe. "From yesterday's lesson."

I hold perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. His touch is feather-light, but I feel it all the way to my toes.

A door slams somewhere near the barn, and Hale steps back like he's been burned. The walls come up behind his eyes so fast it gives me emotional whiplash.

"We should get back to town," he says, all business again. He starts filling a crate with apples, his movements quick and efficient. "I need to open by nine."

I watch him for a moment, this contradiction of a man who can be so gentle with a pie crust but so careful with his heart. "Whatever you say, boss."

He shoots me a look. "Don't call me boss."

"Whatever you say, apple guru."

"That's worse."

"Pie master?"

"Tessa."

"Yes?" I give him my most innocent smile.

He shakes his head, but I catch that almost-smile again. "Get in the truck."

The evening sun slants through my kitchen windows, turning everything golden as I spread my aunt's recipe card and my growing collection of notes across the counter. The scent of baked apples still lingers from our morning experiments, mixing with the coffee I probably shouldn't be drinking this late.

When headlights sweep across my porch, my heart does a little skip. Right on time.

I open the door before Hale can knock, and he gives me a look that says he knows exactly what I was doing. "Eager much?"

"I was just..." I gesture vaguely. "Checking the weather."

"Through the door?"

"Shut up and come look at this." I grab his arm without thinking and pull him toward the kitchen. His flannel shirt is soft under my fingers, and I can feel the warmth of him even through the fabric. I let go quickly, pretending not to notice the way he clears his throat.

"Look," I say, pointing to my notes. "I was thinking about what you said about the different apple varieties, and I had an idea. What if we took Aunt Mae's basic recipe but changed up the filling? Like, what if we added..."

"If you say more cinnamon, I'm leaving."

"Actually..." I reach for a bag on the counter. "I was thinking we could try adding these."

He peers into the bag, eyebrows lifting. "Cranberries?"

"Fresh ones, from your store." I bounce a little on my toes, excited now. "I was thinking about what you said about balance. Sweet and tart, firm and soft. And cranberries are fall harvest too, right? Plus, they'd make the filling this beautiful ruby color..."

I trail off because he's looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. "What? Is it a terrible idea?"

"No," he says slowly. "It's actually quite clever."

"Don't sound so surprised."

His mouth twitches. "I meant the color theory. The taste might be a disaster."

"Only one way to find out." I reach for the flour, but he catches my wrist.

"Not tonight."

My heart sinks. "Oh. Right. You probably need to get home?—"

"I brought something else." He releases my wrist and picks up the bag he carried in. "If you're up for a different kind of experiment."

I peer into the bag. "Pizza dough?"

"It's still pastry," he says, suddenly looking uncertain. "Just different. Thought it might help you understand how dough works. But if you'd rather?—"

"Are you kidding? This is perfect!" I'm already clearing space on the counter. "I haven't had homemade pizza since...Actually, I've never had homemade pizza."

"Never?" He sounds genuinely horrified.

"Unless you count the kind that comes in a tube."

He closes his eyes like he's in physical pain. "We're pretending you didn't say that."

"The tube makes a fun popping sound when you?—"

"No." He shrugs off his jacket, hanging it on one of my kitchen chairs. "Just... no. Get me a bowl for the flour."

We work side by side, shoulders occasionally brushing as he teaches me how to stretch the dough without tearing it. His hands guide mine through the motions, and I try very hard to focus on the technique and not on how right this feels.

"Gentle," he murmurs when I get too aggressive. "Let the dough tell you what it needs."

"The dough needs therapy if it's that complicated."

He huffs out a laugh, and I feel it warm against my ear. "You're impossible."

"You like it."

He doesn't answer, but his hands linger on mine for a moment longer than necessary.

When it comes time for toppings, we hit our first real disagreement.

"Pineapple absolutely goes on pizza," I insist, brandishing a can at him. "It's sweet and savory. Like maple bacon."

"It's an abomination." He's laying out pepperoni with the same precision he uses for lattice crusts. "And that's from a can."

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you happen to bring a fresh pineapple in that magic bag of yours?"

He shoots me a look, but I catch the amusement in his eyes. "The proper toppings are already here."

"Boring toppings."

"Classic toppings."

"Snob."

"Heathen."

We end up making two pizzas. His "classic" and my "adventure in culinary crime," as he calls it. The kitchen fills with warmth and the smell of baking bread, and something else too. Something that feels a lot like happiness.

When the pizzas are done, we sit at my small kitchen table, the golden evening light painting everything soft. I make a show of moaning in delight at my first bite of pineapple pizza, and he rolls his eyes so hard I think they might stick.

"Here." I hold out a slice. "Try it."

"No."

"One bite."

"Absolutely not."

"Please?" I bat my eyelashes outrageously. "For science?"

He stares at me for a long moment, then sighs like a man facing execution. "One bite. And you never mention this to anyone."

I mime zipping my lips, watching as he takes the smallest possible bite. His expression goes through several interesting changes.

"Well?"

He swallows carefully. "It's..."

"Yes?"

"Not entirely awful."

I pump my fist in victory. "Ha! I knew it!"

"I said not entirely awful. That's not an endorsement."

"You like it. You like my weird pizza. Admit it."

Instead of answering, he reaches over and swipes a smudge of sauce from the corner of my mouth with his thumb. The touch is casual, almost automatic, but it sends electricity zinging through me. We both freeze.

"You had..." He pulls back, cheeks flushing slightly. "There was sauce."

"Right." My voice comes out a bit breathless. "Thanks."

We eat in silence for a moment, the air between us charged with something new and fragile.

Finally, I clear my throat. "So, about that cranberry apple pie..."

His laugh breaks the tension, warm and rich. "Tomorrow. Six a.m."

"You're a cruel man, Hale Fletcher."

"So I've been told." But he's smiling and it transforms his whole face. Makes him look younger, lighter.

Makes me want to find new ways to make him smile like that again.

As if reading my thoughts, he schools his expression back to its usual reserve. But something has shifted between us, as subtle and important as the difference between a good crust and a great one.

"I should go," he says, standing. "Early morning."

I walk him to the door, where he pauses, hand on the knob. "Tessa?"

"Hmm?"

"The cranberry idea... It's good. Really good. Your aunt would be proud of you for thinking outside the box like that."

The words hit me right in the heart, making my eyes sting. "Thank you," I whisper.

He nods once, sharply, and then he's gone, leaving me standing in my doorway with the taste of pizza and possibilities on my tongue.

Strictly practical lessons, my eye. We're baking up something much more complicated than pie, and we both know it.

And I'm pretty sure neither of us knows quite what to do about that.