Page 6 of Falling for Cocky Cole
"Looks better than it tastes. But people buy them because they're pretty."
I watch this exchange with growing bewilderment. What is he doing? Cole Carter, asking my mother detailed questions about apple varieties? The same Cole who once said the only difference between apples was their color?
He nods thoughtfully. "I'll take some of each," he says, reaching for bags. "A few pounds of the Galas, Jonathans, Honeycrisps..."
As Mom rings him up, Dad returns from the truck, arms loaded with our homemade apple cider.
"Well, if it isn't a Carter boy," Dad says, setting down his load. "Cole, right? The middle one?"
Cole grins. "That's me, Mr. Walker. Need a hand with those?"
Dad looks surprised but nods. "Got a few more crates in the truck if you're offering."
"Happy to help." Cole sets his bags down by our table and follows Dad toward the parking lot.
I stare after them, completely lost. What game is Cole playing? And why does it make my heart beat faster?
The moment Coledisappears with Dad, Mom turns to me with laser-focused eyes. "That boy didn't come here for apples," she says, keeping her voice low even though there's no one near our stall. I busy myself with rearranging a display that doesn't need rearranging, avoiding her gaze.
"What do you mean?" My voice sounds unnaturally high, even to my own ears.
"Ivy Rose Walker." Mom uses my full name, a sure sign I'm not fooling anyone. "That man just spent forty dollars on apples he doesn't know how to eat. He's never set foot in this market before today. And he can't seem to take his eyes off you."
I shrug, feeling heat creep up my neck. "Maybe he's expanding his horizons. Learning about local food."
Mom snorts. "What happened between you two?"
My fingers fumble with an apple, nearly dropping it. "Nothing," I say too quickly.
She leans closer, lowering her voice further. "Listen to me. Cole Carter is charming—I'll give him that. But he doesn't stick, honey. You know his reputation in this town." Her eyes soften. "I don't want you getting hurt."
"Mom, I'm fine." I stack apples with unnecessary force. "Nothing's going on."
She studies my face for a long moment, and I wonder what she sees there. Before she can press further, Cole and Dad return, each carrying a wooden crate filled with fresh produce. They set them on the ground beside our table, and Cole immediately starts arranging apples on our display with surprising care.
"These Jonathan ones go here, right?" he asks, looking to me for confirmation.
I nod, watching his hands—the same hands that traced patterns on my skin Wednesday night—now gently handling our family's apples. The contrast makes my chest tight.
"One more load," Dad says cheerfully. "Cole here's been telling me about some improvements they've made to the hiking trails around Carter Ridge."
Cole flashes that easy smile. "Nothing major. Just clearer markers and a couple new lookout points."
Dad claps him on the shoulder as they head back to the truck. I feel Mom's eyes on me again and keep my eyes on a speck of dirt on the table.
When they return with jars of our homemade cider, Dad pulls a paper cup from under the table and pours a sample for Cole. "Try this. Fresh pressed last weekend."
Cole takes a sip, and his eyebrows shoot up. "This is incredible, Mr. Walker." He takes another drink, larger this time. "Seriously, this is the real deal."
Dad beams with pride. "We use a mix of varieties—sweetness from the early Galas balances the tart from those early Macs." He leans against the table. "Got an old-fashioned press out at the orchard. Nothing fancy, but it does the job."
"I'd love to see it in action sometime," Cole says, and the sincerity in his voice surprises me. This doesn't sound like the casual flirtation I associate with Cole Carter.
"Anytime," Dad says, oblivious to Mom's pointed look. "Season's just getting started. We'll be pressing every weekend through October."
Cole finishes his cider and glances around our stall, taking in the full range of products displayed. I feel Mom's scrutiny of him, her eyes narrowed as if trying to decode his intentions. I avoid meeting either of their gazes, suddenly finding the pattern of the tablecloth fascinating.
"Are all these homemade?" Cole asks, gesturing to our spread of goods: jars of cider, containers of apple butter and jam, bags of apple chips, caramel apples wrapped in cellophane, mini pies in cardboard boxes, muffins, scones, and little sachets of dried apple and cinnamon blend.
