Three Months Later, Fall
“These are fantastic.” Heart thudding, I lift a butter yellow shirt out of the box and inspect the new logo across the chest.
Sawyer has spent the last year developing and implementing an extensive marketing plan for Evercrisp Orchard. We’ve “rebranded.” I still don’t totally understand what that means, but Mercer assures me it’s a good thing. In addition to our new logo, we now offer a selection of programs and special events. We host activities almost every day, bringing customers into thestorefront by the car or busload. I had to start a waitlist for field trips with the number of requests I’ve received from elementary schools in the area. The parking lot transforms into a small farmers’ market every Sunday, and once a month, we keep the bakery open late so a book club can gather.
The bakery has never been busier. Edna had to hire two more assistants, and she’s training Bella to take over for her next season. We even started selling care packages online. Turns out, people will pay a substantial amount of money to send someone they care about hand-picked fruit and homemade pie.
“Ya know, I don’t think I’ve ever had an Evercrisp apple,” Sawyer muses.
With her hands planted on her hips, she studies the ripening chart and harvest schedule for the year.
I still track everything manually on the dry erase board my dad used. A lot of aspects of this business have changed, and most of those changes have been for the better. The orchard isn’t just surviving anymore—it’s thriving. But some things, like the old white board and the antique equipment in the cider mill, can’t be improved upon.
I make my way over to my woman. She looks gorgeous, as usual. Her hair is pulled back in a loose braid and she’s wearing a tight tank top that puts her nipple piercings on full display. Naturally, she’s stolen another one of my flannels and layered it on top of the tank with a pair of leggings that cling to every curve and the work boots I bought her this spring.
“You’ve had them before. Many times.” I wrap my arms around her from behind, nuzzling into her hair. She smells so sweet—the perfect blend of tart apples and warm, decadent vanilla.
She tips her head back, resting it against my chest, and licks her lips—an invitation.
I kiss her softly, then pull back. “We ate Evercrisp apples all spring. They’re what Edna uses in the winter pies. They’ve got more longevity than anything else we grow.”
She frowns thoughtfully. “Why do they only get picked at the end of the season, then?”
Fair question.
“They’re a storage apple—hardy and substantial. But they need time to reach their full potential. Honestly, they don’t taste great when they’re first harvested. They’re too firm because the natural sugars haven’t had time to break down. They’re grown for longevity. Something to look forward to, after all the other apples are mealy and flavorless.”
Smiling, she cradles the back of my head.
“I love that. Sometimes the best things need extra time to fully develop.”
I kiss her forehead. “Was that intended to be an age joke, honey?”
She smiles slyly, then wraps both arms around my neck. “Maybe.”
She pops up on her toes, seeking my lips. When she glides her tongue against the seam, a sweet little hum escapes her—followed by an immediate increase in buzzing directly behind us.
I sigh, catch Sawyer’s hips, and hold her at arm’s length. “We can’t. The colonies are almost done merging, and I don’t want to stress them out or put them at risk.”
Her face screws up in annoyance. “They can sense us all the way over here?”
We’re standing twenty yards from where I’ve been dutifully uniting two colonies. It’s been a tedious process, but they’re close to chewing through the newspaper separating them, and I’m hopeful that in a few more days, I can declare it a success.
“They can sense it all. Our emotions, our energy, even our pheromones.”
Her hands drift down to my belt buckle despite the warning. She toys with the metal, then cups my cock with her other hand and peers up at me through her thick dark lashes. “So it’s better to just leave you sexually frustrated, then? For the bees’ sake?”
To punctuate the question, she squeezes my length through my jeans.
I hiss, working to keep my pulse under control. “It’s better not to disturb them at all. Half the colony is still getting used to their new queen. It’s more work on her if we upset the hive.”
I rescued a swarm last week. My third of the season. I spent hours searching under the porch of the centennial home in downtown Holt but couldn’t locate a queen. Now I’m working to incorporate the new swarm with one of my existing colonies in hopes that they’ll acclimate and ultimately become one team.
“The queen keeps everyone regulated. She’s the center of the colony. Everything they do is in service to her.” Playfully, I add, “Just like how everything I do is in service of you.”
She tips her chin up, her lower lip pushing out in a pout. With her arms wrapped around me like this, I can feel the thundering hammer of her heart through her shirt as she rubs against me, the metal barbells of her nipple piercings teasing me, and dammit, if that isn’t the most provocative invitation.
But we’ll have plenty of time for that later, after the chores are done and we’ve turned in for the night.
