Chapter Three
Vesper
I can’t believe how much fun I had this morning.
When Parker first caught me sneaking around the orchard yesterday, I was honestly a little scared.
He’s so big and burly, with those broad shoulders and that intense stare, and I thought I was in serious trouble.
I honestly figured I’d be spending today with a grumpy mountain man.
But now, sitting here with fresh-brewed apple cider after a morning harvesting pumpkins with him, I realize Parker is nothing to be afraid of.
He’s charming and kind, and not as bitter or grumpy as I thought.
I expected to spend a few miserable hours picking pumpkins as punishment for my trespassing, but instead I found myself laughing and talking with him like we’d known each other for years.
Something about him puts me at ease, even though I usually keep my guard up around men I’ve just met.
Maybe it’s the way he insisted on carrying both our bins without making a big deal about it, or how he patiently showed me which pumpkins were ripe without making me feel dumb for not knowing.
Whatever it is, I’m starting to think that getting caught in that orchard might have been the best mistake I’ve ever made.
I take another sip of my cider. It’s delicious.
Crisp and sweet with just the right amount of spice.
But what’s even better is watching Parker in his element.
We’re sitting at a picnic table outside the main building, and I have a front-row seat to see how this place works and how much people appreciate his presence.
“Parker!” A woman with greying hair and a warm smile approaches our table, carrying a basket of fresh donuts. “How’d the harvest go this morning?”
“Good haul, Martha,” he says, standing to give her a quick hug. “This is Vesper. She’s the photographer I told you about.”
Martha’s eyes light up. “The one who snuck into the private part of our orchard yesterday.”
I blush. “I’m sorry.”
She waves away my apology with a laugh. “Don’t worry about it. I hope Parker’s been showing you all our best spots to take pictures.”
“He’s been very helpful,” I say, catching the way Parker’s mouth quirks up at that.
“Well, you make sure he takes you to see the old, covered bridge. It’s especially beautiful this time of year with all the leaves changing.” Martha sets the basket down on our table. “On the house. Welcome to Maple Ridge, honey.”
She starts to walk away, then stops in her tracks and turns around. “Did Parker tell you what they say about Maple Ridge?”
“Martha, stop,” Parker says, a desperate look in his eyes.
Martha smiles and ignores him. “They say that when the leaves fall in Maple Ridge, the mountain men fall too.”
She winks at me and hurries off to somewhere else before I can ask for details.
“What was that all about?” I ask Parker.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Well, nothing but a stupid legend.” He runs his hand through his hair and won’t quite meet my eyes. “The locals have this ridiculous idea that autumn does something to the men around here. Makes them… I don’t know, fall in love faster or something.”
He shifts uncomfortably. “It’s just nonsense the older women like to spread around to mess with us.”
“Fall in love faster?” I can’t help but smile at how flustered he’s getting.
“It’s stupid,” he says quickly. “Just because a few guys happened to meet their wives during the fall doesn’t mean there’s some magical curse or whatever.”
“Curse?” I tease. “That sounds more like a blessing to me.”
Parker’s cheeks turn a little pink. “Well, whatever it is, it’s a coincidence. Small town stories always get blown out of proportion.”
But even as he dismisses it, I notice he keeps glancing at me. Is there something to Martha’s legend after all? Not that I’m falling for Parker. God, no. I’m only in town for a week and have only spent a morning with him.
“It sounds like a fun legend. I’ll tell American Lens about it. Maybe they’ll assign a piece about Maple Ridge to one of their writers.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize how that sounds. Like I’m already thinking about other people coming here, and about me leaving. As for Parker, he looks like he’s not fond of the idea of more outsiders coming to his small town and making a spectacle of it.
“Please don’t,” he says with a grunt.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell them,” I promise.
“Thanks.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes, watching everyone. Kids shriek with delight on the hayride, couples wander hand-in-hand, and somewhere in the distance, I can hear live music starting up.
This place feels like something out of a movie. It’s exactly the kind of fall atmosphere American Lens wants me to capture, but I’m starting to realize that my article is going to need more than pretty pictures of pumpkins and apple cider. I need some variation if I want to impress them.
“I should probably go,” I say reluctantly. “I need to capture the essence of fall in Maple Ridge, and I’m betting there’s more to see than just this orchard.”
Parker nods. “There’s plenty. Most tourists stick to Main Street and the orchard, but some spots really show what makes this place special.”
“Such as?”
He leans forward, and I catch a hint of pine soap and sweat. Shit, I could inhale his scent all day long.
“There’s Lookout Rock,” he starts. “It’s a cliff with the best view in the county. You can see the whole town, the forest, and Osprey Lake.”
“That sounds perfect. And what about the lake?”
“It’s something else; I’ll tell you that. It’s quiet and peaceful. Locals go there to fish or to think. There’s wildlife everywhere. I’m talking ospreys, eagles, sometimes even black bears if you’re lucky.”
The way he describes it, I can almost imagine the shots I could get. “That sounds amazing.”
“There’s also the old, covered bridge Martha mentioned, and a few hiking trails that lead to some hidden waterfalls.” He pauses. “I could show you around, if you want. I know all the best spots and the best times to catch the light.”
My heart does a little skip. The practical part of me knows I should probably explore on my own, without distractions. But the other part of me, the part that’s been enjoying his company way more than I should, wants to say yes.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “I’m sure you have other things to do.”
“Not really.” He gives me a look that makes my toes curl in my boots, “I’d hate for you to miss the best shots because you didn’t know where to look.”
He’s right, of course. Local knowledge is invaluable for this kind of work. That’s the only reason I’m considering it. It has nothing to do with the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles or how fun it was working beside him this morning.
“When would we go?” I ask.
“Tomorrow morning? Sunrise at Lookout Rock is incredible this time of year, and the morning light on the lake is perfect for photography.”
Sunrise. That means meeting him early, spending a whole morning together, possibly being alone with him in some very romantic settings. My practical side is waving red flags, but my heart is already saying yes.
“Okay,” I say. “But I’m paying you for your time.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Parker—”
“You already paid by helping with the harvest this morning.” His tone is firm but gentle. “Besides, I want to do this.”
When was the last time someone wanted to help me just because? Not because they wanted something from me or expected something in return, but because they wanted to? Yeah, I can’t even remember.
“All right,” I say. “What time?”
“Six a.m. at The Maple Lodge B&B.”
“Great.”
He stands and extends his hand to help me up. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your car.”
His hand is warm and calloused, and when his fingers touch mine, I feel that same electric jolt from this morning. We walk toward the parking lot slowly, neither of us seeming to want to end this.
“Thank you,” I say when we reach my rental car. “For today, I mean. It was really nice.”
“Thank you for showing up and helping with the harvest. Even if you did pick more leaves than pumpkins.”
“Hey!” I laugh and playfully swat his strong arm. “I got better toward the end.”
“You did. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Vesper.”
The way he says my name makes my stomach flip. “See you tomorrow, Parker.”
I get in my car and start the engine, but I can’t help watching him in my rearview mirror as I drive away, wondering if the local legend also applies to women.
Judging by the way my body’s reacting, I’d say that it does.