Page 92 of Falling for Autumn Again

I hold up the blue and yellow for her approval.

“That’s it,” she says, eyes darting to my face. “Perfect.” And then she’s back inside. She came out for less than ten seconds. But she came.

I smile, secretly elated. “We’ll start tomorrow,” I tell her. “We’ll want to get this on before the first snowfall.”

She smiles back at me. “It’ll be beautiful, Ezra.”

It will—and I’m going to get her outside, all the way out, to look at it when I’m done.

I tell April Green goodbye and settle myself into Autumn's old green Ford. The seats are worn and the steering wheel is wide. But it smells like her. Autumn always smelled as if she'd just baked a batch of cookies—like sugar and vanilla. She tasted just the same. She still does, even after sweating in the sun and planting trees all day. She's as sweet as ever.

I pull down her visor, already able to see how the sun is going to hit me right in the eyes when a photo falls from the confined space between the Ford's ceiling and the thin visor. It lays upright in my lap. The strip of photo booth pictures stares up at me. Eighteen-year-old Autumn and Ezra. In the top picture, I've got my arm wrapped around the back of her head and I'm poking a finger in her right ear. Autumn's nose is scrunched and I've got wide, innocent eyes. My chest rumbles with a laugh. Photo two—we're both laughing. Photo three—I'm grinning, and Autumn still has her eyes closed and her mouth opened with carefree laughter. Photo four—I'm kissing her.

How I waited until photo number four is beyond me. I’m surprised my lips aren’t on hers in every single photo.

I stare at the pictures, trying to remember this day. But I’m too busy reeling over the fact that this photo strip has been tucked away in Autumn’s visor all this time. Surely she uses the visor. She must know the picture strip is here.

Her actions this past week tell me she has feelings for me. But this is physical proof that those feelings aren’t being conjured justbecause I’m back. They never left. This photo strip is tangible evidence that she never stopped loving me.

Even if she isn’t willing to say those words just yet.

I loved her then. I love her now.

And I’m never letting anything or anyone get in the way of that again.

Chapter Forty-Four

Autumn

Ezra’s fingersare warm and strong threaded between my own.

We walk down Main Street—and I happily ignore the half dozen people who have given us a double take. Small town. You have to ignore it or move. And we both know I can’t move.

“What did you think of the tasting?” he says.

I haven’t been to a Love fall festival in years. They’ve added a few things. On top of a pumpkin carving contest and spiced coffees and hot cocoa galore, there’s a fall foods tasting contest.

“It was fun. No one made me drink the cocoa, so that’s a plus.”

He smirks. “Next year you should enter something. I may or may not have volunteered to be a judge.”

I knit my brows. He’s thinking about next year. He’s thinking about us and Love and being here.

I squeeze his fingers because Ezra being back makes me feel whole again. I love my family, my friends, and, for the most part, my life. But that doesn’t mean it’s been easy. There’s been a big fat chunk of me that’s been missing all this time. An Ezra-shaped chunk.

“And you’d vote for my dish, no doubt.”

He lifts one brow. “I’d have to be an honest judge, Green. I couldn’t just give you the Harvest Feast Fest title. As much as I’d like to, I’m too honest.”

I laugh. “But you think I have a shot?”

“I really do. No one makes an apple pie quite like Autumn Green.”

“You havenevertasted my apple pie.”

“No, but I’d really like to. This is my hint.”

I pinch his side—where zero fat resides—and Ezra snatches my elbow. I grin up at him, beaming. I couldn’t stop it if I tried.Ezra.

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