“Good to know. Let’s head to the next row—I think you’ll like them.”
“Which ones are these?” I ask, looking at the reddish apples with a hint of yellow streaks.
“These are Fuji apples. They’re very sweet, often compared to apple juice, so I think you may enjoy them.” She smiles and takes a bite before handing me one.
I take a bite, and it’s much better than the Red Delicious—but that’s not really saying anything. It does remind me of apple juice, and it’s a little crunchier than the Pink Lady apple.
“The Fuji apple was created in Fujisaki, Aomori, Japan. They crossed Red Delicious apples and Ralls Janet apples to create it back in the 1960s,” Tilly says.
“I like this one, but Pink Lady is still my favorite so far,” I say.
“Got it.” She nods, moving us along to the next aisle.
We try four more kinds of apples, including Golden Delicious, Granny Smith, and Gala. By the end, I’m sure that Pink Lady is my favorite, but I’m definitely appled-out. I feel like I’ve eaten fifty apples when, in reality, I probably didn’t even have one full one. All the different tastes and tartness are an interesting change.
“So how do you feel now that you’ve officially gone apple picking?” Tilly asks.
“Good. I feel like I know a lot more about apples, at least—which is probably good information to have.” I laugh.
“Are you doing anything the rest of the day?” she asks, and my heart skips a beat. Is she going to ask me out?
“Uh, no?”
“You should come over, and I can teach you how to make apple pie. Lina, Hattie, and I are making them for the pie-eating contest next week.”
My heart sinks, realizing it’s a friendly invite. I mean, of course it is—I’m her boss. She doesn’t want to cross that line again and is trying to make things less awkward between us.
“Oh, sure. Should I bring anything?”
“Nah, just clothes you don’t mind baking in. It can get a little messy, and I don’t have any aprons,” Tilly says.
“I think I have some. I’ll swing by my house before I stop by later. What time are you starting?”
“Around six.” Tilly checks her watch. “I can text you if the time changes.”
“Perfect.” I smile.
It’s quiet as she gives me a ride back to the main side of the orchard on the tractor. All you can hear is the motor, and we don’t make small talk. I don’t know if she’s nervous or just ran out of things to say. I’m too busy overthinking. The way she smells like apples and fresh-cut grass is intoxicating. I’ve never been someone who wanted to be with someone so nature-y or outdoorsy, but fuck—just smelling her, I can’t imagine anything else. There’s something hot about a woman who works with her hands and takes care of business. I mean, like literally. Of course, my body is a little confused, and a shiver runs down my spine thinking of the last time she took care of my business.
“You okay?” Tilly asks as she helps me off the tractor.
“Of course,” I say quickly.
“Okay—you just look a little flushed, is all.” She tilts her head.
“Must be the heat! These boots are quite hot,” I lie.
“Definitely a change from those heels of yours.” She winks. Before I have a chance to respond, I’m sneaking toward my house to get ready for later.
TWENTY
Bells
“Is there a wrong way to mix?” I ask as Tilly pours ingredients into the bowl.
“Just stir in every direction until there aren’t any lumps,” she says.
I can cook a few things, but I’ve never been a baker. So I take the wooden spoon and mix around as much as I can. She’s still adding things, so I pause each time she does.
