CHAPTER FOUR
Abby
Some girls had a type. Mine came with apple trees and attitude.
I showed up to the orchard the next day after school with a thermos of coffee and a dozen of pumpkin spice bars I’d baked last night—because I couldn’t sleep. Not after that kiss.
One stupid kiss and everything I thought I had locked down cracked wide open. My track record with men was lousy—bad choices, worse endings. I was good at building walls and even better at convincing myself I was fine behind them.
But Trent Lawson… he’d bulldozed right through those walls with one kiss. And worse? I’d let him.
Because this wasn’t just a crush. It wasn’t just hormones or the end of a dry spell. This was me, actually falling for the grumpiest, most frustrating, emotionally barricaded man I’d ever met.
And I knew it because every step closer to that shed made my chest ache and my stomach flip.
Trent was working himself into the ground trying to hold this place together.
Yesterday’s irrigation disaster had shown me just how much weight he carried on those broad, stubborn shoulders.
And no matter how sharp his words were, I’d seen the truth under them—glimpses of a man who cared too deeply, who fought too hard, who didn’t know how to let anyone in.
And damn me, I wanted to be the one he let in.
He was already in the shed when I arrived, bent over a piece of equipment that was clearly giving him trouble.
His flannel shirt was rolled up to his elbows, revealing those distracting forearms and stretching against those biceps.
I shivered, remembering what it felt like to have those arms wrapped around me.
“Good morning, sunshine,” I said cheerfully, setting the coffee and treats on his workbench. I probably should’ve opened with something cooler, sexier. But no, I went full kindergarten-teacher-on-a-caffeine-high. Because apparently his snarly attitude did it for me.
He looked up, his dark hair falling across his forehead. My fingers itched to push it back. To stand on my tiptoes and kiss away the frown lines.
“What’s this?” He gestured at the coffee and plastic container like they might explode.
“It’s called a treat for a hardworking man.” I winched internally at the cheesy words but kept the smile on my face.
“I don’t need you bringing me food.”
That was such a lie. Every man needed something warm and sweet. I just hadn’t decided if I meant the coffee... or myself.
“Of course you don’t. You probably survive on pure stubbornness and bad attitude.” I opened the container and selected a bar. I had frosted them with cream cheese icing. I looked at him as I took a bite. “These are really good, even if I baked them myself.”
“There’s a bakery in town.”
I nodded my head as I took another bite. “Quinn’s Bakery. I’ve been there. She makes some delicious things, but I felt like baking last night.” I didn’t add that I baked when I was stressed—or evidently horny.
“I didn’t say I didn’t want any,” he muttered, wiping off his hands.
“Well, aren’t you gracious.” But I pushed the bars toward him. I looked around and found a stack of paper coffee cups. I poured a cup for each of us. “So what’s the disaster today? More irrigation problems?”
“Apple washer is acting up.” He took a bite of the dessert, and I tried not to notice the way his lips closed around it. “Won’t cycle properly, which means I can’t process yesterday’s harvest.”
I peered over his shoulder at the machine, inhaling that clean soap scent that seemed to follow him around. “What happens if you can’t wash the apples?”
“Can’t sell them. Health department regulations.” His jaw was tight with frustration. “I’ve got two hundred bushels sitting in cold storage that need to be processed today, and this piece of junk decides now is a good time to break down.”
The stress in his voice made something twist in my chest. Without thinking, I reached out and touched his arm.
“Hey,” I said softly. “We’ll figure it out.”
He went very still under my touch, his dark eyes finding mine. “We?”
Oh. I hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t meant to include myself in his problems. But looking at him—really looking at him—I could see the exhaustion he was trying to hide, the way his shoulders carried the weight of keeping this place running all by himself.
“I meant you’ll figure it out,” I said, but I didn’t move my hand. “You always do, right?”
For a moment, something shifted in his expression. The hard edges softened just a fraction, and I caught a glimpse of vulnerability before his walls snapped back into place.
“Right,” he said, stepping back so my hand fell away. “I always do.”
But he didn’t sound convinced.
I spent the next two hours watching Trent tear apart the apple washer piece by piece, his frustration mounting with each component that tested fine.
It should have been boring, but just like yesterday, watching him work fascinated me.
He was methodical, thorough, completely focused on the problem at hand.
It was also incredibly attractive, the way his hands moved with such confidence and skill. I’d always been drawn to competent men, but there was something about Trent’s quiet expertise that made my mouth go dry.
“Try it now,” he called from underneath the machine.
God, his voice. All gravel and command and—nope. Focus, I scolded myself. Focus on the apple washer, not the wetness that was gathering on my panties.
I pressed the start button, and the machine hummed to life. “It’s working.”
“About damn time.” His voice was muffled but I could hear the relief. “Hit the stop button.”
I did, and the machine powered down just as Trent rolled out from underneath it. “I guess this calls for a celebration.”
He smiled at me. The first full on smile he’d given me and my ovaries gave a sharp tug on my heartstrings.
He crossed over to the refrigerator in the corner and pulled out a brown jug. Next, he took two paper cups from a stack and walked back over to the work bench. “You can be my official taste tester. This was made from the first batch of apples this year.”
He handed me the small paper cup, and I took a sip. I’d had cider before, but this seemed to explode across my taste buds. It was sweet and tangy all at once.
“Oh, wow.”
“Good?” He grinned as he downed his cup with one swallow.
“Dangerously good.” A drop clung to my bottom lip, and I licked it away without thinking.
His gaze fixed on my mouth. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate and before I could say anything he reached out, his thumb brushing across my lip to catch the last trace of the cider.
The touch stole my breath.
“Can’t waste it,” he murmured, his gaze locked on mine.
I forgot how to breathe. Forgot where we were. All I knew was him—his warmth, the taste of cider on my tongue, and the hunger flickering in his expression.
Then his hand cupped my jaw, and he kissed me.
It wasn’t gentle or tentative. It was desperate and hungry, like he’d been thinking about this as much as I had.
He kissed like he was claiming territory.
His tongue swept boldly over the seam of my lips, then deeper, raking against the roof of my mouth.
I moaned into him, and he swallowed it like a man starved.
His other hand tangled in my hair, holding me to him as his mouth moved over mine with an intensity that made my knees weak.
I’d been kissed before. Plenty of times. But never like this. Never like I was oxygen and he’d been drowning. Never like he couldn’t get enough of me.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard. Trent’s forehead rested against mine, his eyes closed, his hands still framing my face.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t you dare apologize,” I said fiercely. “Don’t you dare.” I hadn’t waited all my adult life for a kiss like that just to have it brushed aside like a mistake. That kiss? That was a declaration. A detonation. A damn cider-soaked epiphany.
His eyes opened, and the heat I saw there made my pulse stutter. “Abby...”
“I wanted you to kiss me,” I said, because apparently we were being honest now. “I’ve wanted you to kiss me like that since you caught me falling off that ladder.”
Something dark and possessive flashed across his face. “You could have been hurt.”
“But I wasn’t. You caught me.” And somewhere deep inside, I knew he’d always be the one who would.
“Someone has to,” he said roughly. “You’re going to give me a heart attack with all your accidents.”
“Then you better keep me close, mountain man,” I whispered, breath hitching.
His hands tightened on my face. “Abby, I’m not... I don’t do relationships. I don’t do complications.”
“Good thing I’m not asking for a relationship then.”
He studied my face, searching for something. “What are you asking for?”
Everything. The word popped into my head unbidden, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying it out loud. Because that was crazy. I barely knew this man, and what I did know suggested he was emotionally unavailable and determined to stay that way.
But looking at him—really looking at him—I couldn’t bring myself to care about the smart thing to do.
“I’m asking you to stop overthinking,” I said instead. “I’m asking you to kiss me again.”
For a moment, I thought he might refuse. Thought his better judgment might win out over whatever this was between us. Then his mouth crashed into mine again, and I stopped thinking altogether.
This time, he walked me backward until my legs hit the workbench, lifting me effortlessly to sit on the edge. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and the sound he made against my mouth was purely male and completely undone. I wanted to bottle it just like he bottled cider.
His hands were everywhere—tangling in my hair, tracing the curve of my jaw. I could feel the heat of him through our clothes, could feel how much he wanted this despite every rational reason to stop.
“Fuck, Abby,” he breathed against my neck, his lips trailing fire along my skin. He found the hollow of my throat and pressed his lips there, slow and reverent. ‘What are you doing to me?’
I didn’t have an answer for that. All I knew was that I was drowning in the feel of him, the taste of him, the way he was touching me like I was something precious and forbidden all at once.
His mouth found a spot just below my ear that made me gasp. My hands fisted in the front of his shirt. I could feel him smile against my skin.
“Sensitive?” he murmured, doing it again and making me arch against him. “Let’s find some more, shall we?”
His hands slid beneath the hem of my shirt, fingers dancing along my bare skin until they were stopped by the edge of my bra. I was about to suggest we find somewhere more private when the sound of tires on gravel cut through my haze of desire.
“Damn it to hell,” he cursed. “Can’t a man kiss a girl in peace?”
I giggled. I had to. We’d sprung apart like teenagers caught by parents. “Are you sure there’s not some lost lover’s history to the orchard? Some spirit trying to keep us apart?”
He smiled, just a little. “Not that I know of. Just really piss poor timing on everyone’s part.”
Through the open door, I could see a delivery truck pulling up. Trent looked like he wanted to curse a blue streak.
“I have to—” he started.
“Go,” I said, hopping down from the workbench on unsteady legs. “I’ll... I’ll just wait here. Or maybe I should—”
“Don’t go anywhere,” he said, and there was something almost desperate in his voice. “Please. We need to... we need to talk about this.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. He gave me one last look—intense and heated and full of promise—before heading out to deal with the delivery.
I slumped against the workbench, pressing my fingers to my still-tingling lips, and tried to process what had just happened. They still felt bruised. Claimed and cider-kissed.
Trent Lawson had kissed me. More than kissed me. He’d given me my first cider-kiss. And unless I was completely misreading the situation, he wanted to do a lot more than that.
Oh, Abby. What have you gotten yourself into?