Chapter 27
Greyson
She didn’t want anything fancy.
“Just… something small,” Blair said earlier that afternoon, chewing on the corner of her nail like she thought I would roll out a red carpet or take her to the city.
She didn’t know I’d been planning this for a week. Not flowers and candlelight kind of planning. No, I wanted to give her something better, something real. Something that felt like us.
So Blair raised a brow when I showed up at Madison’s just after five the next day with a grin and a picnic basket in one hand.
“You’re wearing flannel,” she said.
I looked down. “It’s a clean flannel.”
“And you’re smirking.”
“I do that when I’m proud of my ideas.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What are you up to, Grey?”
I leaned in. “You’ll find out, honey bee.”
I drove us past the edge of town, where the paved roads turned gravel and the sky stretched wide. The trees were blushing, orange and gold sweeping the ridge, and the light was that kind of golden you don’t get in the city. Soft. Dreamlike.
Blair’s eyes lit up when we pulled into the old orchard lot.
“No one comes out here anymore,” she whispered.
“Exactly.”
The trees were still full, and the apples were not quite ripe but fragrant. I spread a blanket between two trunks and laid out the basket: fried chicken from Harvy’s Diner, sweet tea, biscuits, honey butter, and two slices of apple pie.
Blair sat down cross-legged, blinking like I’d performed a magic trick. “You remembered,” she said.
“What?”
“That I like pie better than cake. That I love this orchard. That I hate stiff restaurant tables and dressing up.”
“I remember everything about you,” I said.
She looked away quickly, but not before I saw the color rise in her cheeks.
We ate with our fingers. Talked about books and bad first dates, how Wisteria Creek still had the same mayor, and how Olive had learned to smile with such determination.
When the sun dipped behind the ridge, I pulled her close and kissed her slowly. No rush. No expectations. Just her and me and the quiet rustling of leaves.
“I like this,” she murmured against my neck. “Us.”
“I like it too.”
Later, we walked through the orchard hand in hand, the ground soft beneath our boots, the air smelling like cider and possibility.
She looked up at the stars, then at me.
“Do you ever wonder how we ended up here? After everything?”
“Every day.”
“And?”
“And I thank whatever twist of fate brought you back.”
She stopped walking. “You think it was fate?”
I stepped in closer, brushing hair from her cheek. “I think it was you being brave. I think it was me finally learning how to wait.” She kissed me then, slow and sure. And when she pulled back, her eyes were shining. “Take me home, Greyson.” And God help me, I hoped she meant it in every way.