Chapter 6 #2
‘No harm done,’ he said, running a hand through his wet hair in a gesture that seemed unconscious, but drew her attention to the strong line of his forearm where his sleeve had pushed up.
‘Apples are tough, and they’ve definitely survived worse.
’ He glanced toward his truck, then back at her, his expression shifting toward something more practical.
‘You’re looking for the Glen Arms, is it?
It’s that way. Can’t miss it – big stone building with ivy all over the front. ’
Faintly disappointed at the dismissal, Molly nodded and gripped her suitcase handle. But before she moved away, he reached into his cart and selected a fresh apple, its skin still gleaming with raindrops like tiny jewels.
‘Here,’ he said, extending it toward her. ‘Fresh from Goldenridge this morning.’
Molly’s head snapped up, eyes suddenly intent on his face. ‘As in Goldenridge Orchard?’
‘You’ve heard of it?’ he asked, surprised.
‘Yes, I—’ She paused, something shifting in her memory. ‘A local landmark, isn’t it?’
He studied her more carefully now, his gaze landing on her laptop case, previous warmth cooling slightly. ‘Not especially. Small operation. Family-run.’
‘Do you work there?’
‘You could say that.’ He began repositioning his cart, checking that the wheels were properly aligned on the uneven cobblestones.
‘With the old cider press and the row of ancient trees along the western border?’ Molly continued speaking, her voice tinged with wonder.
Aoife’s old stories had painted such a vivid picture of the orchard that Molly felt as if she’d walked its rows of apple trees herself, could almost smell the sweet-tart scent of fruit ripening in the sun, could nearly taste the crisp cider that her grandmother had claimed was like drinking autumn itself.
He looked up sharply, dark eyes narrowing suddenly. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Well, it’s quite famous around here, isn’t it?’
He studied her face with newfound intensity. ‘Not really,’ he said shortly. ‘Unless you’re in the apple business.’
His posture had changed, the easy camaraderie of moments ago replaced by something far more guarded.
‘I’m not.’ Molly laughed lightly. ‘My grandmother used to talk about it.’
‘Your grandmother’s from around here?’
‘Yes,’ Molly confirmed.
‘What’s her name?’ he asked, his tone carefully casual, but his eyes watchful.
Molly hesitated. She wasn’t ready to share her reasons for being here with a complete stranger, or anyone as yet. Not until she’d had time to settle, get the lay of the land, as it were. ‘Brennan,’ she said simply.
Something flickered across his face – recognition, perhaps, or calculation maybe? ‘Very few Brennans around here,’ he said neutrally. He moved to the front of his cart, though his movements had lost their earlier ease, becoming more deliberate, more contained.
‘Do they still make that cider?’ Molly asked, genuinely curious. ‘The one aged in oak barrels? Sun something …’
He paused, his back to her. ‘Sunrise,’ he stated flatly, turning then.
Molly could immediately tell that for some reason this, in particular, bothered him. ‘Like I said, my grandmother—’
‘Must know our orchard very well indeed,’ he interrupted, his expression hardening. ‘Well enough to know about a cider we haven’t produced commercially in over thirty years.’
When he turned back, his expression had closed completely.
The man who had just flirted with her, who had tossed her an apple with that devilish half-smile, had vanished.
In his place, stood someone wary and remote, regarding her with the careful assessment of a man who’d been proven right about something unpleasant.
What had just happened? One moment they’d been bantering in the rain, the next he was treating Molly like she’d come to steal the village silver.
He shook his head, and now looked for all the world as if he was about to wrench back the apple he’d given her, then seemed to reconsider, his hand falling back to his side. ‘Keep it,’ he barked stiffly. ‘Our specialty, but you probably know that already.’
Molly was completely bewildered by the sudden change in demeanor, but before she could ask outright what she’d done wrong, he gestured to the top of the square.
‘Like I said, hotel’s that way.’
Through the rain, Molly could now make out the imposing facade of the Glen Arms Hotel at the top of the square.
Stone walls softened by climbing ivy, windows glowing with warm light that promised comfort within.
The sight lifted her spirits slightly. Soon she could shed her wet clothes, wrap herself in whatever the Irish equivalent of a hotel bathrobe might be, and finally, finally rest.
Yet first she felt the need to rescue whatever had gone awry with this guy.
But before she could gather her thoughts, he’d grabbed the handles of his cart and with one last look – part suspicion, part something that might have been disappointment – turned and began pushing it down the street, the cart’s wheels rattling over the uneven cobblestones.
‘Wait—’ Molly called after him, but to her disbelief he didn’t even give her the courtesy of a goodbye.
What the heck …? Her grandmother’s stories had painted Golden Valley as warm and welcoming, a place where strangers were treated with respectful curiosity, rather than outright suspicion.
Or hostility even.
‘Huh. So much for a thousand welcomes,’ Molly muttered confused, as the apple guy finally disappeared around a corner, the fruit he’d thrust at her now heavy in her palm.