Page 4 of Cider Kissed By the Mountain Man
“It’s sixty seconds. I’m sure your precious apples survived the trauma.”
“My precious apples pay for this place. Your field trip is an inconvenience I’m tolerating, not a priority.” He pushed off from the door without moving aside, forcing me to step back. “And if you can’t follow simple instructions like showing up on time, maybe you should find somewhere else to take your kids.”
Oh, he was a real charmer.“Well, lucky for both of us, I’m not going anywhere. My students are counting on this trip, and I don’t disappoint kids because some grumpy hermit can’t handle basic human interaction.”
His jaw tightened, and I caught a flash of something dangerous in those dark eyes. Good. If he thought he could intimidate me with his I don’t like people routine, he was about to learn otherwise. I’d been stared down by angry PTO moms and once negotiated peace during a second-grade glitter war. His glower didn’t scare me. It actually kind of turned me on. But that was beside the point.
“Fine,” he said through what I was sure as slightly gritted teeth. “Follow me. Try to keep up without breaking anything.”
He strode off toward the orchard at a pace clearly designed to make me jog to keep up. I managed it for about thirty seconds before my shorter legs started protesting.
“So,” I said, slightly breathless, “tell me about the history of this place. My students love—”
“It’s an orchard. We grow apples. End of story.”
Wow.And I thought my second-graders were moody in the morning.
“Come on, you can do better than that. This place has been in your family for generations, right? There has to be something interesting. A founding story? A family legend? Maybe a tragic romance involving forbidden love and apple blossoms?”
He stopped so abruptly I almost ran into him. When he turned around, his expression could have flash-frozen hell. Apparently, Trent Lawson took offense to whimsical field trip stories.
Noted. No apple-blossom love stories. Just doom, gloom, and agricultural highlights.
“This isn’t some romanticized fairy tale, Ms. Foster. Or some tourist attraction. It’s a working orchard that requires actual work, not cute stories and photo opportunities for Instagram.”
The dismissive tone hit exactly the wrong nerve. I’d dealt with condescending men before—plenty of them—and I was not about to let this oversized grump treat me like some vapid city girl looking for entertainment.
“First of all, I don’t have Instagram,” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “Second, I’m not looking for photo opportunities. I’m looking for ways to teach seven-year-olds about agriculture, hard work, and where their food comes from. But clearly, that requires more communication skills than you possess.”
For a moment, he just stared at me like I’d grown a second head. Then his scowl deepened.
“You want communication skills? Here’s some communication. This place doesn’t run on warm fuzzy feelings and educational moments. It runs on sweat and luck and hoping nothing breaks down long enough to turn a profit. Your kids want apples? Fine. They can pick apples. But don’t expect me to turn it into some heartwarming lesson about family legacy.”
The bitterness in his voice caught me off guard, but I wasn’t about to back down. “You know what? Fine. Be as miserable andunwelcoming as you want. But those kids are going to have a great time here whether you participate or spend the whole day frowning at us from behind the trees.”
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe—before the scowl returned. He muttered something under his breath that sounded like stubborn woman and stalked toward the orchard.
This time his pace was slightly less punishing and I took it as a small victory.
We’d reached the main section of the orchard, and despite my annoyance with my surly tour guide, I had to admit it was beautiful. Rows upon rows of apple trees stretched out in neat lines, heavy with fruit that ranged from deep red to golden green.
“It’s gorgeous,” I breathed.
“It’s work,” Trent said flatly. “These trees don’t maintain themselves. Pruning, spraying, harvesting, dealing with pests, weather, equipment failures—it never stops. And it sure as hell isn’t gorgeous when you’re dealing with a crop disease or a late frost that wipes out half your harvest.”
I winched in sympathy even though I knew he wouldn’t appreciate it. Of course, I had to try and lighten the mood. “Well, Johnny Appleseed, I still think my students will—”
“First lesson,” he interrupted, pointing to a ladder leaning against one of the trees. “Ladder safety. I can’t have a bunch of kids falling out of trees because their teacher didn’t bother to learn basic safety protocols.”
Okay, now he was just trying to make me fall off something. “I’m perfectly capable of learning safety protocols.”
“We’ll see.” He walked over to the ladder. “Rule one—never climb alone. Rule two—check stability before putting weight on it. Rule three—don’t be an idiot.”
“Thanks for that last one. Really illuminating.”
He shot me a dark look. “You want to be sarcastic, or you want to learn how to keep kids from getting hurt.”
I bit back my retort and focused on his demonstration, but standing this close to him was making it hard to concentrate. He smelled like soap and something outdoorsy that made my pulse kick up, and when he adjusted the ladder’s position, his forearms flexed in ways that were definitely distracting.
