Page 7 of Falling for Cocky Cole
"I make most of them," Mom admits. "The baked goods are fresh this morning."
Cole picks up a jar of apple butter, studying the hand-lettered label. "We could really use products like these at Carter Ridge." His voice shifts slightly, taking on a more professional tone. "Our guests are always asking for local touches. We could add your cider to our breakfast menu, stock the apple butter in our dining room..."
He sets down the jar and continues, enthusiasm building. "And these mini pies would be perfect for our welcome baskets. Plus, we could use your fresh apples in those baskets too. Something a bit more special than what we get from the distributor."
Dad's face lights up. "Now that's an interesting idea."
Mom's expression remains carefully neutral, but I notice the slight softening around her eyes. Before she can respond, a group of tourists approaches our stall, exclaiming over the display.
"Look at those caramel apples!" a woman in a floppy sun hat says. "Do you make these yourselves?"
For the next fifteen minutes, we're all busy helping customers. To my surprise, Cole doesn't step back or leave. Instead, he seamlessly integrates himself into our operation, talking to customers with easy charm, recommending varieties based on what he just learned from Mom.
"The Honeycrisps are worth the extra dollar," I hear him tell a hesitant couple. "Trust me, I just tried them for the first time. Game-changer."
He passes out sample cups of cider, telling everyone it's the best in town. When a woman eyes Mom's mini pies, Cole jumps in. "Mrs. Walker is a legendary baker in Silvercreek. Those won't last the drive home if you open the box."
When he helps an elderly customer carry her bags to her car, Mom leans toward me.
"Didn't realize he was part of the sales team now," she says, but there's less bite in her tone than I expected.
"I can tell him to leave if it bothers you," I offer, though the thought of Cole leaving makes my stomach twist in a way I don't want to examine.
Mom shakes her head slightly. "Could use the help, to be honest."
I glance at her, surprised to see her expression has softened. When Cole returns, smiling widely after apparently charming the elderly customer, Mom actually nods at him in acknowledgment.
I roll my eyes. "Looks like you can't resist Cocky Cole's charm either."
"It has nothing to do with charm," she insists, straightening a stack of pie boxes. "It's business, that's all."
"Sure," I say. "If you say so."
While I'm relieved that Mom seems willing to give Cole a chance, confusion washes over me. I told myself the Cole from Wednesday night was an illusion—a practiced routine from a man who knows exactly what to say to get women into bed. I was willing to believe he isn't the irresponsible heartbreaker the town thinks he is, but I wasn't prepared for this version of him either—helping my parents, showing genuine interest in our products, making actual business suggestions that could help our struggling farm.
It was supposed to be a fling. One night, no strings, nothing complicated. But Cole is acting like there's something more serious between us, something worth pursuing. The thought both thrills and terrifies me. Because if Wednesday night wasn't just another conquest for him—if he actually means what he's saying—then I'm in far more danger of getting hurt than I realized.
4
COLE
The morning flies by faster than I expected, each minute at the Walker's stall more enjoyable than the last. I catch Mrs. Walker—Maggie—almost smiling at me when I correctly explain to a customer why Honeycrisps cost more. Not a full smile, mind you, but the permanent crease between her eyebrows has softened. Progress.
Tom's been treating me like an old friend, calling me "son" once when I helped him rearrange the display, and talking about the orchard like I might actually visit. But Ivy—Ivy's the puzzle. She won't look at me when I'm looking at her, but I feel her eyes on me constantly. Every time I catch her watching, she glances away, but not before I glimpse something in her expression I can't quite read.
I didn't plan this morning to go so well. I figured I'd show up, maybe buy some apples, try to get five minutes alone with Ivy. I didn't expect to spend hours helping her family, learning more about apples than I ever thought I'd want to know, or actually enjoying myself. But here I am, feeling oddly at home underthis worn canvas tent, surrounded by the fruits of the Walker family's labor.
Around noon, the crowd thins out. Most market-goers have wandered toward the food trucks and picnic tables at the far end of the square. Tom wipes his hands on his jeans and looks around at our group.
"I'm thinking burgers," he announces. "Anyone else hungry? What'll you have, Cole?"
I hesitate, glancing at Ivy who's focused on restacking a pile of apple chip bags. "Thanks, Mr. Walker, but I should probably head back to Carter Ridge. I've taken up enough of your morning."
"Nonsense," Tom starts, but Maggie cuts him off.
"Tom, let's go grab those burgers," she says, reaching for her purse. Then, to my complete surprise, she turns to me. "Cole, would you mind staying a moment? Help Ivy with the stall?"
Ivy's head snaps up, her blue eyes wide with shock. I'm sure my expression matches hers.
