Jake finished his pie, helped Diane clean up, and promised to check in again after the new year. As he drove back toward Spoon, his phone buzzed, and he saw an incoming text on the rental’s center display.
Wes:Survived the Saturday rush. The farm’s a disaster. I’m a disaster. But we made good money.
Jake smiled. Using the reply option, he voice texted back:I’m proud of you. Dinner tomorrow?
Dad’s got a doctor’s appointment in the morning, and then work.
Doctor appointment? On Sunday?
Yeah, I know. It’s weird. But they do that now. It’s actually better for me because on Sundays we don’t open until noon.
Makes sense.
Monday?
I’ve got the vineyard visit.
Damn.
Tuesday?
Yeah. Definitely. Miss you.
Jake felt heat rising from within.Miss you too.
I’ll call you tonight.
He spent the rest of Saturday afternoon in his room at the Hawthorne House, working on reports and trying not to think about Wes.
He failed.
By evening, he couldn’t wait any longer. Wes answered on the second ring, breathless. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself. You sound exhausted.”
“I am. Good exhausted, though. We sold eighty trees today.Eighty. That’s almost a week’s worth in one day.”
“That’s amazing, Wes.”
“Yeah.” A pause, then softer: “Kept thinking about you, though.”
Jake closed his eyes. The phone felt warm in his hand. “Yeah?”
“Kept seeing you in the workshop. On the workbench. Your face when you—” Wes broke off, laughing. “Shit, I’m not good at this.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“I’m covered in sap, and I smell like a pine tree threw up on me.”
“Sounds sexy.”
Wes laughed again, warm and genuine. “You’re an idiot.”
“Your idiot?”
Silence. Then, quieter: “Yeah. I think so.”
They talked for another hour—about nothing and everything. Wes told him about Miguel accidentally cutting down the wrong tree and a family from Alabama who’d bought the biggest Fraser on the lot. Jake told him about Diane’s pie and the way the orchard looked in the winter sun, all bare branches and golden earth.
