Chapter 33
Wade
I don’t even recognize myself. I’ve officially become the kind of man I used to make fun of.
The clingy kind.
The pathetic kind.
The kind who spends an entire weekend checking his phone for a text message.
Not constantly. Just enough to be embarrassing.
Ari and I texted a few times. I asked how Landrie’s bridal shower went. Asked how Liv was doing after Ari spent Sunday evening trying to cheer her up. Asked questions that could easily be explained away as concern for a friend.
Unfortunately, I know exactly why I asked them.
I missed her.
Three stupid days.
Three days shouldn’t feel like a long time, but it somehow felt like forever.
Which is why I am far more excited about fall festival week than any grown man should be.
Past Wade deserves a medal or a standing ovation for volunteering myself for every fall festival activity Ari oversees. At the time, I was being a responsible principal—or so I rationalized. Now it feels especially convenient.
The cider press sits beneath a pop-up canopy at the edge of Main Street. Hay bales surround the demonstration area. Pumpkins are stacked beside hand-painted signs. The scent of apples and cinnamon hangs in the air.
Then I see Ari, and every coherent thought leaves my mind.
She’s wearing jeans, boots, a white tank top, and an unbuttoned flannel that shifts in the breeze, revealing the curve of her shoulder. Her hair is piled into a messy bun that looks like she spent thirty seconds throwing it together, but it really, really works.
She spots me and smiles, and my stomach fills with a buzz—I think people call them butterflies, but it’s a new sensation to me. One I’m growing to love.
“Hi.” Her smile widens as she reaches me.
“Hi.”
A beat passes. I had an entire weekend to think of something charming to say, but now I can’t recall a single thing I rehearsed.
Ari raises an eyebrow. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m supervising apples.”
Supervising apples? Sheesh, Stevenson.
“Good.” She laughs then looks at the cider press. “Do we know how to work this thing?”
“Dean Alden gave me some instructions. I passed them on to the students.”
She looks around. “I guess we’re open for business, then?”
“I guess so.”
For the next half hour, Ari and I oversee controlled chaos as teenagers take turns helping kids feed apples into the grinder and make fresh cider to taste.
Everything runs smoothly until one of the students waves us over.
“Stevie!” he calls. “The press is jammed.”
I walk over and inspect the old-fashioned hand crank. “It’s not jammed.” I grab the handle. “You’re just not putting enough weight into it.”
“My arm’s tired. Your turn.” The kid walks away without a look back.
Ari smirks. “Classic teenager.”
“You want to give it a try?” I step to the side, giving her space to grab the handle.
“Okay.” She tries, but the crank doesn't move. “It’s harder than it looks.”
“Move over.”
“No, I’m going to get it.”
I laugh despite myself and step behind her. “Let me at least help you get the crank started.”
My hand slides down her arm as I step behind her, my chest brushing her back. My fingers close over hers on the wooden handle. That’s when my pulse jumps to unhealthy levels. Cardiac arrest levels that don’t make sense for a cider press.
“Like this,” I quietly say into her ear, watching how my breath brushes the hair falling out of her bun across the nape of her neck.
The press groans and finally turns. Fresh cider pours into the waiting bucket below. My other hand anchors on her waist for leverage.
We push again. The crank turns easier this time, but my attention keeps snagging on the curve of her neck and the scent of her perfume.
Then I hear the whispers, not just from students but from adults too. My eyes dart around, and I’m painfully aware of how this looks. A week ago, I would've leaned into it. Now? The idea of everybody watching us feels different. Because I’m not doing any of this for them. I’m doing it for me.
I immediately step back.
Too fast.
Too obvious.
Ari glances over her shoulder, confusion tinting her brow.
“I think you got it.” I move to get more apples, like that’s somehow going to help the massive feelings swirling around my body.
Festival week just got a lot more complicated.
Ari
I PROMISED Landrie that after Wade and I were done at the cider press, we’d go on a hayride to the pumpkin patch with her and Jaxon.
But that was when things between Wade and me seemed normal. Somewhere at the cider press, things took an odd turn. Wade couldn’t seem to decide whether he wanted to stand next to me or avoid me altogether.
One minute, he was behind me, helping crank the handle. The next thing, he was halfway across the booth, pretending to organize apples as if he didn’t care about the fake-dating charade at all.
At some point, I’ve stopped being able to tell when he’s acting for the bet and when he’s being real with me. And that’s terrifying because after Andy, I can’t really trust my own intuition.
I’m probably reading things all wrong.
I need to just stop thinking about it. About Wade.
The hay wagon creaks beneath us as Archer Kade guides his team of dapple-grey draft horses down Main Street. The ex-rodeo cowboy does his best to pretend like he’s not affected by the fact that Juliet Monroe is seated beside him on the driver’s bench, but I see the way he can’t stop looking at her.
I guess Landrie knew what she was doing when she suggested—more like forced—her friend to sit up front with the town cowboy. I didn’t know how much Landrie was like my mom until I witnessed, firsthand, her matchmaking skills.
She sits across from Wade and me in the back of the wagon, leaning into Jaxon while he plays absentmindedly with her hair.
Main Street and the fall festival activities disappear behind us as we turn the corner and head for the pumpkin patch.
The entire town looks like somebody dumped a bucket of paint across Autumn Ridge. Orange, gold, and crimson trees glow with signs of fall. It’s so breathtaking I can’t believe I stayed in Florida as long as I did.
The wagon ride is packed with people from town, making the space between Wade and me virtually non-existent.
Every bump in the road sends our shoulders knocking together.
My thigh presses against his and stays. Another bump sends his arm against my leg.
His fingers flex as if he’s unsure. For a second, I think he’ll move his hand.
He doesn’t.
Which is strange because earlier at the cider press, he acted like getting too close to me crossed a line he didn’t want to cross.
Now, every touch is confusing.
Is it for the bet, the fake scheme, or because Wade wants to be close to me?
Tough to tell.
It’s a short ride to Bugelbach’s Pumpkin Farm, where Farmer Joe has an impressive number of pumpkins strewn about the area.
Wade hops down from the wagon first, turning back for me with an outstretched hand. My fingers slip into his, letting him help me to the ground. He looks down at our joined hands, almost like he’s waiting for me to let go. When I don’t, his grip tightens around mine
Warm.
Firm.
Comfortable in a way that I’ve grown to like.
“Would you do me the honor of going through the straw maze with me?” His lips curl into one of his dangerous smiles that has become a problem for my heart.
“Sure.”
“You two should go ahead.” The smile Landrie gives me is entirely too knowing, making me regret telling her the truth about Wade and me. “We’ll catch up.” She winks at me as she drags Jaxon away, leaving me to believe her matchmaking skills have turned onto us.
“Come on.” Wade pulls me toward the hay. “I’ll let you lead.”
Why do I get the feeling there’s more behind that statement than how it sounds?
By the time Wade and I emerge from the maze, Landrie and Jaxon are waiting near the pumpkins.
“There you are.” Landrie immediately grabs my arm. “Come help me pick out a good one.”
Before I can protest, she tugs me away from Wade. I glance over my shoulder at him, but his expression doesn’t give much away.
The second we’re out of earshot, Landrie groans dramatically. “Oh, my gosh! Could you two be any cuter?”
I shake my head. “You know none of it is real.”
“Um…yeah, it is. It’s obvious Wade is gone for you.”
“This is Wade Stevenson we’re talking about.”
“So?”
“So, he’s acting.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “This is different.”
“Landrie.” I roll my eyes.
“Seriously. You don’t see what I see.”
“And what exactly do you see?”
“The way he watches you when you aren't paying attention. And he’s nervous around you, like a teenager around his first crush. It’s adorable.”
That almost makes me laugh. “Wade isn’t nervous around women.”
“Maybe because he’s never liked one as much as he likes you.”
Against my better judgment, I glance across the pumpkin patch. Wade stands beside Jaxon near a display of small pumpkins. As if he feels my eyes on him, he looks up. Our gazes meet instantly. Then he smiles. Not the big, charming smile he gives everyone else. Something smaller. Softer.
I feel that smile deep in my soul.
Landrie bumps her shoulder into mine. “See? It’s so obvious that he’s into you. And now that I think about it, it’s been obvious for years.”
“Amazing theory, except for one tiny detail. I haven’t even lived here for years.”
Landrie stops beside a pile of cream-colored pumpkins. “When Wade and I dated, all he ever wanted to talk about was you.”
My heart stutters. “What?”
“At the time, I thought he was just being nice because you two were friends.” She picks up a pumpkin and immediately puts it back down.
“But now I realize he was way more interested in what was happening in your life than mine. What you were doing in Florida. Whether you liked your job. How often you came home. Stuff about Andy.”
The words take my breath away because, for years, I’ve carried around the same story. Wade never wanted to date me. He wasn’t interested. I wasn’t good enough for him. Case closed.
But suddenly, Landrie’s words poke holes into that belief.
She laughs. “Looking back, I don't think he was ever really interested in me. He just wanted you.”
Across the pumpkin patch, Wade looks over again.
And for the first time, I find myself wondering if I’ve misunderstood our entire history.