Page 84 of Falling for Autumn Again

“Yeah, but it has the color on the can.”

I knit my brows, trying to make out what he means.

“The house color.” He holds up the can once more. “I never got to say goodbye to Ed. The least I can do is make sure his house is kept up. He always took such care in things like that.”

My throat feels like a zip tie, zipped to the end of its plastic rope. I can’t breathe or speak or—

“I mean, if that’s okay. I’m not trying to overstep—”

I shake my head, tears welling. Dad would like that. “It’s nice, Ezra. It’s very kind of you.”

He nods, still unsure if he’s made a mistake or not. So, I take three steps to stand in front of him, lean in, and press a soft kiss to his lips. “Thanks,” I say, before bolting for my truck.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Autumn

“What can I do?”Ezra asks me. The sleeve of his gray T-shirt stretches over his bicep, distracting me. He scans over the goodie bags I’ve prepared for the second graders from Love Elementary.

Every second grader in town gets a tour of our farm. They each get to plant a little sapling too. I replant half of them later. But those kids remember. They come back twenty years later and they’re certain the Christmas tree they purchased is the same one they planted. We let them come just after the shop’s been set up. They all bring their dollars and dimes, and they love shopping on their own—without those pesky parents. There’s no mom or dad to tell them what they can or cannot purchase, and Dessie cuts prices in half on all the wooden ornaments just for the kiddos, though half of them go home with Starbursts and Skittles. If only they knew the deal they were getting.

“Clean-up crew?” I say, answering Ezra’s question. Ezra, like me, grew up working on this farm and he knows exactly what that means. He’ll follow behind the tour and make sure we don’t lose any eight-year-olds and that no one damages any of the trees or saplings.

No one wants a Christmas tree that a kid decided to sword fight.

I’ve got Dessie’s high school crew coming in after school to work on pest control and transplanting. The help has been nice—and while all of those kids got a not-so-great second impression of me dressed in nothing but a blanket, they still listen to me, getting to work when asked.

Two buses line up just outside our shop—where, one day, my bistro will sit.That is, if we ever get started on construction.

Ezra and I wait side by side for the kids to file out. I know half of them and the other half I could probably tell you who their parents are just by looking at them. The hazard of growing up in a small town with half our high school class never leaving.

But this year I’m not alone. Some years Dessie helps out, but mostly I lead and attempt to clean up all on my own while Dessie mans the store and Don works the farm. I’m feeling more confident this year with Ezra at my side. At least, until Lucas Allred jumps from the top steps of the bus.

That kid. He’s every bit his father, with whom Ezra and I graduated. How Stew Allred was allowed to reproduce is beyond me. But Lucas is the product of his father in every way.

I nudge Ezra with my side and mutter between my zipped lips, “Stew Allred’s kid. Twelve o’clock.”

“No.” He darts a quick glance my way and the shock on his face is priceless. “Someone had sex with that guy?”

I sputter on… nothing. Still, I choke back my laughter. “Yes. And you’ll see mini Stew in action today. No doubt about it. He’s his father in every form.”

“Awesome.” Ezra groans, running a hand over his brown bristles, reminding me of years long gone. He could never have grown a beard like that one at eighteen.

“Ooo.” For some reason, I bump him again, sending another wave of tingles over my skin and down my spine. “And that’s Maria Mays’ daughter.”

He nods. “I don’t remember her.”

“You will. She talked. A lot. And so does little Stella.”

"Hi, Miss Green!" Stella calls as if I've paid her to do so on cue. "Hey! Hey! Miss Green!Autumn! Hey!”

I turn from Ezra’s grin to wave at the little girl. She’s got Maria’s pretty blue eyes and a wide smile too.

Lucas barrels past us, tugging Stella’s backpack, stringing her along for three steps, and making her wail.

“Stew,” Ezra barks, calling the kid by his dad’s name. I can’t blame him; it’s absolutely something Stew would have done.

"Lucas," I whisper, nudging him yet again—because apparently, I need to touch Ezra every chance I get today. I blame it on the jeans and T-shirt hugging his body.

---