He nods. “Cool.”
Clearing my throat, I gesture toward the four-wheeler. “So, uh, if you want to hop on with me, I can show you around the orchard.”
His mouth twitches into a smile. “Promise to keep me safe on that thing?”
Heat spreads up my neck. “I—um, yeah. Of course.”
He huffs a quiet laugh before turning toward the four-wheeler. Growing up, we used them all the time to get around the farm quickly. I got this one for my seventeenth birthday—a blue ATV with a rack in the back for hauling tools.
I swing my leg over the leather seat and grip the handlebars. Troy climbs on behind me, his thighs settling on either side of mine, fitting there like puzzle pieces. His chest hovers close to my back, the warmth of his body seeping through the thin fabric of my shirt. I’d expected him to leave a little space between us, but apparently personal boundaries aren’t really his thing.
“Alright. Hold on,” I mutter before turning the key.
The engine roars to life, the seat vibrating beneath us. The sharp scent of gasoline cuts through the air. I jolt when Troy’s arms slide around my waist, his grip firm, his body pressing fully against mine. Every muscle in me locks up.
“What?” Troy shouts over the engine. “You said to hold on.”
My jaw tightens. “You don’t have to—I mean, there are rear handgrips.”
He hums, chin settling on my shoulder. “Nah. I like this better.”
Well… alright, then.
I squeeze the clutch, and we lurch forward, speeding down the dirt path that cuts through the orchard. Wind rushes past us, tugging loose strands of my hair across my eyes. The trees close in on either side, their leaves whispering overhead, offering relief from the blistering sun.
Troy’s arms stay locked around my waist, solid and unyielding, his presence impossible to ignore. When I glance down, I catch sight of his forearm tattoos—roses tangled with skulls and thorny vines, the ink softened with age.
I veer off the main path, guiding the ATV deeper into the orchard. The rows grow tighter, the world narrowing until the sounds of the nearby road fade away completely. I slow as we reach a small enclave of trees tucked into the center of the property—a quiet pocket I’ve loved since I was a kid.
I cut the engine, and the sudden silence rings in my ears.
Out here, it’s peaceful. Just birdsong and the soft rustle of leaves, the air cooler beneath the canopy. I swing my legs off the seat stand, finally putting a little space between us.
“These are tart cherries,” I explain, waving a hand toward the trees. “Montmorency, mostly. They’re hardier than sweets and better for our soil.”
Troy hops off the ATV and wanders closer to the nearest tree, his attention immediately zeroing in on the branches heavy with fruit. He reaches out, thumb brushing a cluster of cherries.
“They look healthy,” he says, nodding with a soft, approving smile. “You really know your stuff, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess. This block usually does pretty well,” I say, suddenly very aware of how much I’m rambling. “We use a machine that shakes the trees, catches the fruit on a big tarp, and funnels them into containers. Then they’re sorted, washed, pitted—well, dependingon where they’re going. Some go straight to cold storage. Others get processed same-day.”
I realize I’m talking too fast, words tumbling over each other, and force myself to shut up. Troy just smiles, arms crossed, clearly enjoying watching me squirm.
“Sounds like you’ve got it down to a science,” he says, smug and amused.
Needing an excuse to look away, I reach up and pluck a cherry from a low-hanging branch, rolling it between my fingers. “You probably won’t like these,” I add, glancing at him. “Tart cherries aren’t really meant to be eaten plain. They’re more for baking. Or, you know. Brewing.”
A faint smile ghosts across his lips. “I don’t know. I like to sample the product—especially if I’m investing a lot of money in it.”
I hesitate. “I’m serious. They’re sour.”
He shrugs, stepping closer. “I like sour things.”
Before I can respond, he tilts his head and opens his mouth, waiting. He looks completely serious, gaze locked on mine, steady and confident. His brown eyes are as dark and woodsy as the trees around us.
My pulse kicks up hard as I stare at him, cherry pinched between my fingers, suddenly hyperaware of how quiet it is out here. Of how close he’s standing. Of the fact that I absolutely did not plan for this.
Pinching the stem, I dangle the cherry above Troy’s lips. His tongue flicks out, catching the silver ring in his bottom lip.
