Page 71 of Finding Gideon
“Older,” I corrected, “and wiser.”
At the shack, a teenage staffer looked up from her clipboard and waved. “You guys picking today?”
“That’s the plan,” I said with a smile.
“Cool. We’ve got Gala and Gravenstein ripe this week. Rows four through seven are open. Pricing’s by the pound—$2.75. Ladders are at the row ends if you need ’em.”
The staffer handed over a laminated map, but I shook my head with a quick smile. “We’re good without one.”
Gideon raised a brow at me. “Are you planning on us getting lost?”
“That’s half the fun.”
The girl grinned. “Fair enough. Baskets are right there.” She pointed toward a stack near the fence.
We thanked her and stepped away from the shack. Gideon grabbed one of the wooden baskets before falling in beside me, brushing my arm as we headed for the first row.
“Let’s just meander,” I said. “No rush. We’ll see what looks good.”
He followed me down a dirt path lined with signs—Gravenstein – Ripe & Ready!,Honeycrisp Coming Soon—and then drifted toward the quieter end of the orchard, away from the few families with strollers and baskets already filling. The air smelled like crushed grass and sugar.
I reached up and plucked an apple from the nearest branch, dropping it into the basket Gideon carried.
“Granny Smith,” I said.
His mouth curved. “Confident.”
I shrugged. “Confident-ish.”
He gave me a sidelong glance. “You’ve got that tone that says you’re probably right.”
“Probably,” I said, grinning.
I held an apple out to him while I bit into another one, crisp and tart, in my other hand.
He ignored the one I offered. Took the one I’d just bitten instead and bit into the same spot without blinking.
Our eyes met.
That second hung suspended—silent, electric, unspoken.
Then he chewed slowly, swallowed. “Pretty good.”
“Yeah,” I managed, voice lower than before.
We strolled a little farther. He plucked an apple overhead and nudged it into the basket. A few more fell in with soft thuds.
“So,” he said casually, “is this your big move? Lure them into the orchard with baked goods and 2000s slow jams?”
I laughed. “You’re the only date I’ve ever brought here.”
“Lucky me,” he said, eyes glinting as he bumped my shoulder with his. “I get the cinnamon roll, the slow jams, and the orchard tour package.”
Chapter 23
Malcolm
We’d wandered far enough that the chatter of families had faded to a faint hum. The trees here were older, branches sprawling wide and heavy with fruit, their leaves casting dappled shade over the grass. The air smelled faintly of apples and sun-warmed earth.
