Page 4 of Falling for Cocky Cole
I wanted to hold her then, to ask what went wrong, to tell her everything would be okay. But we weren't those kinds of friends. We were barely anything to each other—just two people connected through other people.
I know what it's like to have dreams deferred. After high school, I nearly left with a band that was playing gigs all over the state. They needed a guitarist, and I was good—good enough that they were willing to wait while I packed my life into one duffel bag. Then Dad got sick. Caleb was still a kid, basically, and Grant was drowning trying to keep the family business afloat. They needed me, so I stayed.
I don't regret it, most days. But sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I'd gone. If I'd chosen my dreams over my family. If I'd have ended up like Ivy—coming back with that look in my eyes.
When I saw her at the Antler, something shifted. She hinted at her unrequited feelings for two off-limits guys, and I knew it was my chance. Even if it wasn't love she was looking for, even if it was just pleasure—if that's what she wanted, why shouldn't I be the one to give it to her?
Maybe that makes me selfish. Maybe I should have been a gentleman and just listened to her problems. But the way she looked at me across that table, like she was seeing me for the first time—not as Caleb's brother or the town playboy, but as a man who wanted her—I couldn't walk away from that.
My phone vibrates in my hand. Ivy's response:I had a great time, but please don't text me again.
My heart sinks, but only a little. I expected this. She still thinks her mother knows me better than she does. That Cole Carter is the wrong guy for her, or for any woman in Silvercreek with sense in her head.
But I'll show her how wrong her mother is, how wrong every mother who warns her daughter against Cole Carter is. I might have been a playboy, but that was before I found something—someone—worth changing for.
I pocket my phone and walk back to where Tanner is actually making decent progress on the rail.
"Let’s move on to the next job," I say, picking up my own tools. "We need to hurry if we want to finish everything on the list today."
Tanner looks up, surprised. "I didn't know we had to finish all of it today."
"Change of plans," I tell him, already moving to the next section of railing. "I won't be around tomorrow. Got something important to take care of."
"Oh," he says. "Something wrong?"
"No," I say, feeling a smile tug at my lips. "Something right. Or at least, something that will be right, once I fix it."
Tanner nods like he understands, though he clearly doesn't. That's fine. I barely understand it myself—why Ivy Walker has gotten under my skin in a way no woman ever has before. All I know is that I'm not giving up because of one rejection text.
Ivy thinks she knows Cole Carter—the reputation, the rumors, the cautionary tale. Tomorrow, I'm going to start showing her the man behind all that. The man who's wanted her for years. The man who could be good for her, if she'd just give him a chance.
3
IVY
The cinnamon scent from the bakery stall drifts across the farmer's market, mingling with the earthy smell of fresh produce and the sweet tang of our apples. I weigh another bag, tie it with practiced fingers, and hand it to the elderly woman who's bought from us every Saturday for as long as I can remember.
"Thank you, Mrs. Henderson," I say with a cheerful voice.
The morning sun filters through the canvas of our tent, casting dappled light across the red and green mounds of fruit before me.
The Silvercreek Farmer's Market pulses with weekend energy—locals chatting with neighbors they've known all their lives, tourists in hiking boots and floppy hats searching for authentic small-town charm. The donut stand near us has been frying cinnamon sugar treats since dawn, and the line hasn't shortened since. Across the way, a man in overalls sells honey in jars that catch the sunlight like amber.
"Need another bag of Galas?" I ask a young mother juggling a toddler on her hip. She nods, and I reach for our orchard’s paper bag, the one with the hand-drawn apple tree my dad designed fifteen years ago and refuses to update.
Behind me, Dad grunts as he hauls another crate from the truck. His weathered hands—permanently stained from years of harvest—grip the wooden slats with practiced ease. He nods at a passing customer but keeps moving, efficient as always.
"Now, Mrs. Parker," my mother says to our most dedicated pie-baker, "the secret is using two varieties. A mix of tart and sweet." Mom's voice has that patient teacher quality she reserves for customers. "The Jonathans give you that bite, but add a few Honeycrisps for depth."
Mrs. Parker leans in conspiratorially. "Is that why I can never quite match yours, Maggie?"
Mom winks. "That and fifteen years of practice."
I smile to myself. Mom pretends her recipes are common knowledge, but she guards her actual techniques like state secrets. Mrs. Parker has been trying to crack the code of Walker apple pie for a decade, never realizing Mom's leaving out at least three crucial steps.
The morning rush ebbs after eleven, leaving me with unwelcome space to think. My hands stay busy rearranging displays, but my mind drifts to Wednesday night. To Cole. To the way his fingers traced patterns on my skin like he was memorizing me. To the look in his eyes when he?—
I shake my head. Stop it, Ivy.
