Chapter Three | Sam #2
I retreated to my room, coffee forgotten in the kitchen.
This was a disaster. I was here to coordinate a high-profile wedding, not take field trips with a chef who clearly couldn't stand me.
But Rory was right about one thing—I was wound tight, and maybe a few hours away from my laptop would help me reset.
I spent the next two hours reviewing vendor contracts and confirming delivery times, trying to ignore the fact that I was looking forward to seeing the apple orchard. When had I last spent time in nature just for the experience?
At nine-forty-five, I changed into my comfiest jeans, layered a flannel shirt over my long-sleeve tee, and pulled on the wool coat I'd packed. A plaid scarf and leather gloves completed the outfit. I studied myself in the mirror, hoping I looked okay.
Gus was waiting by his truck when I came downstairs—a beat-up Ford that had seen better times. He'd changed out of his chef's whites into faded jeans and a dark green henley. A leather jacket hung open over his shirt, and he'd left his hair down, dark waves just touching his collar.
I focused on adjusting my scarf.
"Ready?" he asked, tone neutral.
"As I'll ever be."
The truck's cab was small, the bench seat brown leather worn smooth. Every bump in the road shifted us slightly closer together. The drive started in silence, both of us staring at the winding road that led deeper into the mountains.
The October landscape was breathtaking—aspens turning gold against evergreen pines, morning sun painting everything in warm light.
The air through the cracked window was sharp and cold enough that our breath formed small clouds.
Fall in Colorado was beautiful, but this felt different. Wilder. More raw.
"It's gorgeous here," I ventured after ten minutes.
"Yeah." He kept his eyes on the road. "Different from San Francisco."
"Is that where your restaurant was?"
His knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. "Yeah. Harvest. We had it for three years before..." He trailed off.
Before it failed, he'd said last night. I wanted to ask what happened, but his clenched jaw suggested the topic was closed.
Another five minutes passed. I watched the scenery roll by, feeling like a burden he'd been forced to drag along.
Then he surprised me.
"Look, about this morning—"
"I was out of line," I interrupted. "You didn't sign up to be filmed, and I shouldn't have pushed. Or moved your things. Or... any of it."
"I overreacted too." He glanced at me briefly. "I'm just not great with cameras these days. Or strangers in my kitchen. Or change in general, apparently."
A smile tugged at my lips. "And I'm a control freak who can't stop working even when I should."
"Are we apologizing or insulting ourselves?"
"Can't it be both?"
His laugh startled me—genuine and warm, lighting up his features. "Fair enough."
The truck turned down a gravel road, and a hand-painted sign announced Hartley's Apple Orchard.
The property stretched across rolling hills, trees heavy with fruit in shades of red, yellow, and green.
Frost still clung to the grass in shadowed patches.
A large red barn served as the farm stand, people milling about with baskets and bags.
"Ready to pick some apples?" Gus asked, his voice almost playful.
"I haven't done this since I was eight," I admitted. "My dad took me before..." Before the divorce, before everything got complicated, before I learned that being perfect was the only way to keep people from leaving.
"Well, you're in for a treat then." He opened my door before I could reach for the handle. "Hartley's grows twelve different varieties. Each one has specific uses in cooking."
As we walked toward the barn, Gus's entire demeanor changed.
The tension melted away, replaced by enthusiasm as he explained the difference between Honeycrisps and Fujis, which apples made the best pies versus tarts.
I knew the varieties from working with caterers, but hearing him describe the specific culinary applications—how Granny Smiths held their shape during baking, how Cortlands oxidized slower for salads—was different. Personal.
"You love this," I observed, accepting a basket from the cheerful woman running the farm stand.
"Food is love," he said simply. "That's what my grandmother used to say. Every ingredient has a purpose, a story. Cooking is just helping those stories come together."
We wandered through the rows of trees. I ran my hand along the rough bark of an apple tree, the texture catching on my gloves.
He taught me how to tell if an apple was ripe, how to twist rather than pull to avoid damaging the branch.
His hands were gentle with the fruit. The same care I'd seen him use in the kitchen.
"Try this one." He handed me a yellow-green apple he'd just picked. "Granny Smith. Tart, but perfect for pies when baked."
I bit into it, the sharp tartness making me pucker. He laughed at my expression.
"Not a fan?" he teased.
"It's very... committed to being sour," I managed, making him laugh again.
"Here." He dug through his basket and found a deep red apple. "Try a Fuji for balance. Nature's candy."
This one was sweet and crisp, juice running down my chin. I wiped it away self-consciously, aware of his gaze.
"Better?" he asked.
"Much better."
We picked apples in comfortable silence for a while, filling our baskets.
We grabbed a second basket when the first filled up, then a third.
The sun warmed my back despite the October chill.
I'd completely forgotten about my phone, about the wedding, about everything except the simple pleasure of being outside doing this with my hands.
The autumn colors were incredible—deep oranges and reds in the leaves, golden light filtering through branches. I paused to appreciate a particularly vibrant maple, its leaves brilliant against the blue sky.
"These would be perfect for the ceremony," I said, gathering a handful of the most vivid leaves. "Do you think the farm stand would let me take some branches?"
"Hartley won't mind if you ask," Gus said.
"You know what's funny?" I said as we added more apples to our collection. "I used to love fall. Pumpkin patches, hayrides, all of it. Then somewhere along the way, autumn just became another 'wedding season' to me. Another deadline to manage."
"Yeah." He paused mid-reach, a piece of ripe fruit cradled in his palm. "Autumn was when Harvest failed. When I found out about..." He stopped himself, shook his head. "I've been trying to reclaim it. Remember why I fell in love with cooking in the first place."
"Is it working?"
He held my gaze, and warmth spread through my chest.
"Getting there," he murmured.
"At least you have real seasons here," I offered, trying to lighten the moment. "Fall in California isn't exactly the same. I mean, the beaches are nice, but you don't get this." I gestured to the mountains, the changing leaves, the crisp air containing the smell of wood smoke.
"No," he agreed, his smile returning. "Though I do miss the ocean sometimes. The sound of waves, the tide rolling in and out. Different kind of beautiful."
We reached for the same apple. Our hands collided. We both pulled back.
"Sorry," I said.
"You take it." He gestured, his hand lingering near mine for a beat too long.
After we'd filled our baskets to overflowing with different varieties—McIntosh for applesauce, Cortlands for salads, Honeycrisps for eating fresh—we headed toward the barn. The scent of cinnamon and fried dough made my stomach rumble loud enough for Gus to hear.
"Come on," he said, grinning. "We both skipped breakfast. Time to fix that."
The barn's interior was warm and welcoming, strings of lights crisscrossing the ceiling and hay bales arranged as seating.
Vintage farm tools hung on the walls—rusted saws and ancient scythes arranged like art.
A small counter sold fresh cider, apple donuts, and other treats.
We ordered hot cider and a box of donuts fresh from the fryer, still warm and coated in cinnamon sugar.
We found a spot on a hay bale by the window.
Our thighs pressed together in the small space.
Our body heat combined against the cool air drifting through cracks in the barn walls.
The cider was perfect—spiced with cinnamon and cloves, sweet but not too sweet.
I wrapped my hands around the cup, savoring the warmth.
"This is incredible," I said after my first sip.
"Wait until you try the donuts." He held out the box, and I selected one that was practically steaming.
The first bite was pure heaven—crispy exterior giving way to soft, warm dough, the cinnamon sugar coating my lips. I couldn't suppress a satisfied hum.
When I opened my eyes, Gus was watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
"Good?" His voice was lower than normal.
"So good."
"You've got—" He reached toward my face, his hand hovering near my mouth. "Foam. From the cider."
My heart kicked up. I waited for him to wipe it away, wanted him to, but instead he pulled back, gesturing to his own upper lip.
"Right there."
Heat flooded my cheeks as I swiped at my mouth with a napkin. "Thanks."
"No problem."
We ate without speaking for a moment, but the silence felt comfortable now. Charged with awareness, yes, but not awkward. His shoulder pressed against mine. The warmth of him seeped through my layers. I should move over, give us more space, but I didn't want to.
"I should apologize properly," I said finally. "For what I said earlier. About you hiding, about being afraid of failure. I don't know your story, and I had no right to judge."
"You weren't entirely wrong." He stared into his cider. "I am hiding, in a way. Licking my wounds. Trying to figure out who I am without the restaurant, without the reputation I built. It's easier here where no one knows about my failure."
"It's not failure to try and have it not work out."
"Even when it implodes spectacularly? When you lose everything you built because you trusted the wrong person?"
Pain roughened his voice. I understood suddenly that his issues with control, with strangers in his space, came from a place of betrayal.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "Whatever happened, I'm sorry you went through it."
He looked at me then, his eyebrows rising slightly. "Thanks."
We finished our cider and donuts, then loaded the baskets of apples into his truck.
I stopped at the farm stand to buy several branches of the vibrant maple leaves, the woman wrapping them carefully in brown paper.
The drive back was easier, conversation flowing more naturally as he pointed out landmarks and told me about Wintervale's history.
The way his face lit up talking about the town, I could tell he'd fallen in love with this place.
"There's a pumpkin patch I want to hit this afternoon," he said as we pulled up to the inn. "Cullen's. They have the best pumpkins for carving, and Rory wants more for the inn. You’re coming, right?"
I should say no. I had work to do, calls to make, details to confirm. But when I looked at him—at the hope in his expression, like maybe he wanted my company—I heard myself say, "What time?"
"Three? That'll give you time to do some work—or maybe take a nap—and I need to process these apples for tomorrow's menu."
"Sounds good."
"See you then, Sam." He smiled at me, and my stomach flipped.
I watched him carry the baskets into the kitchen, then climbed the stairs to my room. When I checked my phone, I had seven missed calls from Emma and fifteen texts from various vendors.
But all I could think about was the warmth in Gus's eyes when he'd smiled at me, the way his voice had softened when he'd shared his story, and the fact that I hadn't checked my phone once in over an hour.
Maybe Rory had been right. Maybe I needed this more than I'd been willing to admit.
Maybe setting work aside for a few hours wasn't the end of the world.
I smiled at my reflection in the dark window, then tucked my phone back into my bag and zipped it closed.