Page 70 of Finding Gideon
I pulled out of the parking lot, the scent of cinnamon filling the cab. “It’s a surprise.”
“You’re giving mysterious older man energy. Should I be concerned?”
“Only if you hate fun.”
“I love fun. I’m amazing at fun.” He took another bite. “Is it breakfast? Brunch? Hiking? One of those weird museums with taxidermy and salt art?”
“Nope.”
“Are you taking me to meet your secret wife and kids?”
“Guess again.”
He squinted at me, chewing slowly like he could analyze the clues in his pastry. “Somewhere outdoorsy?”
“Not the bug-spray-and-camping kind of outdoorsy,” I said. “Think sweeter. Literally.”
A beat of silence passed as he eyed the road ahead. I kept my hand on the wheel, the other on my thigh, tapping lightly to the rhythm of nothing.
Planning something for a man—for him—should’ve felt foreign. Instead, it settled into place like I’d done it before in another life. The kind of gesture I never thought I’d get to make. A morning like this. Some moments with him.
He reached for the center console, thumb brushing the touchscreen. “Do you mind?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Instead of the radio, he paired his phone with the truck’s Bluetooth, scrolling through a playlist calledRoad Snacks. A mix of mellow indie, older alt-rock, and a couple of questionable pop songs poured from the speakers.
By the time we’d worked through half the playlist, the landscape had shifted—golden hills giving way to green, the air a little crisper. Wooden signs started appearing at the roadside, hand-painted in looping script with names likeCider RidgeandApple Hill Drive.
Another turn and the orchard came into view, rows of apple trees stretching across a gentle slope. Their branches bowed under the weight of red and gold fruit, neat and orderly in the morning light. The sign over the weathered welcome shack read:
Sweet Haven Orchard – Pick Your Own
Gideon hopped out first, boots crunching on the gravel. He stretched, arms overhead, then turned in a slow circle like he needed the whole place to sink in.
“This is…” His voice softened. “Way cuter than I expected.”
I came around the front of the truck, carrying the half-finished cinnamon rolls. “What’d you expect? A rotting field with sad trees?”
“I don’t know. Less charming. More bugs.”
“It’s early. Give it time.”
From the barn, a familiar bass line floated over the quiet. 00s R&B, smooth and nostalgic. I smiled automatically.
Gideon cocked his head. “You’re humming.”
“Guess so.”
He smirked. “You’re showing your age.”
“Proudly.”
“You know this song?”
“Every word. This was prom music.”
He whistled low. “Wow. You reallyareancient.”
