She glanced down the street, craving a break from the bike’s rigid seat. “Mind if we walk?”
“Not at all,” Texas replied with a small, easy smile. “I could use the stretch.”
Arriving at Monday’s apartment, Sunday used the key to unlock the door and stepped inside. She was met with a spacious one-bedroom loft, a surprising contrast to the run-down building it sat in. It was a testament to what a fresh coat of paint and carefully chosen furnishings could do to transform a place.
She walked through the bright living room and spotted another envelope resting on the small dinette table. Picking it up, she unfolded the contents and found three hundred dollars and a note from her sister:“Whatever you spend, I’ll need back.”
The note didn’t bother Sunday. Monday worked hard for her money, and she knew this was just her way of looking out.
Texas read the note over Sunday’s shoulder and gave a slow nod. “Take a hundred,” he said quietly, “and leave a note thanking her.”
He’d usually tell her not to take anything, but right now, he was making a different kind of point.
After leaving Montreal, they made a quick stop about an hour outside of St. Tite to grab dinner. Neither of them mentioned the night before—the kiss, or Monday’s note. The silence between them was comfortable, but charged, as if both were waiting for the other to break the fragile truce.
Instead, Texas filled Sunday in on everything she needed to know about the farm and orchard. He shared stories about his family, so she’d have some idea of what she’d be stepping into.
Clause was his older brother. Grumpy but devoted and married with not four, but five daughters. Probably why he was always so grouchy. Roan, the younger brother, was married too, but still waiting on kids. Then there was their dad, Pierre, their mom, Kathryn, and his mother’s sister, Helen, who doted on all of them without exception.
As Texas spoke, Sunday pictured the family dynamics—a mix of love, chaos, and loyalty waiting for her just beyond the orchard’s trees.
Sunday felt a little overwhelmed as she climbed back onto the bike. Clinging to Texas, she watched small town after small town blur past them. Open pastures stretched wide on either side, framed by thin lines of trees that punctuated the landscape like brushstrokes in a Norman Rockwell painting.
The steady hum of the engine beneath her and the gentle breeze on her face contrasted sharply with the swirl of emotions inside her—calm on the surface, but churning underneath.
As the sun dipped low, casting a warm amber glow over the landscape, Texas and Sunday rolled into the town of St. Tite, heading toward the moulin à cidre. Texas had called ahead, letting his parents know he’d be back in town with a guest.
As they passed the sprawling apple orchard and the busy cider mill, Texas pulled in the clutch and gave the throttle a sharp rev, the engine’s roar cutting through the evening air. It was a familiar signal to his family that he was home.
He eased off the clutch, shifted gears, and rolled onward toward his house on the far side of the orchard. Tomorrow, he was certain, his family would descend on his doorstep, eager to find out who the woman riding with him was.
Chapter Sixteen
Sunday woke againfrom the same nightmare that haunted her sleep ever since she’d curled up in the armoire in Dalton’s garage. Her heart pounded in her chest as she blinked away the remnants of the dream, heavy with shadows and fear. Slowly, she wiped the sleep from her eyes and let her gaze settle on the room around her. Soft light filtering through the curtains, the faint scent of worn leather and cologne lingering in the air.
This was Texas’s bedroom. This was his bed. She was safe here.
Tugging the blankets up around her shoulders, Sunday reminded herself she was indeed in St. Tite—safe—and there was a man watching over her. A man who had kissed her with a mix of tenderness and desperation that still lingered on her lips.
She shoved off the mattress, a shiver running through her as the cold air of the room wrapped around her skin. The chill made her wince, pulling her back to the stark reality outside the warmth of the bed.
Shivering, she pulled her feet back under the covers, seeking the warmth that fled from the cold room. Across the way, the firein the wood-burning stove had burned low, its orange embers glowing weakly but no longer casting enough heat to chase away the chill.
Rubbing her arms to chase off the cold, Sunday swung her legs over the side of the bed and hurried toward the stove, desperation pushing her forward as the room’s icy grip tightened around her.
Standing on the worn rug in front of the stove, Sunday grabbed the black iron poker resting nearby and quickly stoked the embers back to life. The faint crackle and sparks brought a flicker of warmth to the room and to her thoughts.
As she shifted her weight from foot to foot, memories from her childhood drifted through her mind like whispers—faint but persistent, echoing from a time when safety felt more certain.
“Make sure you block it up to keep the embers smoldering, then add kindling.” Sunday couldn’t remember who had taught her that, but the words came back clearly. She dug through the ash with the fire poker until she uncovered more glowing embers hidden beneath the gray dust.
Carefully, she picked up a few slender pieces of wood and nestled them into the belly of the stove. With gentle stokes, she coaxed the embers back to life, watching as small flames began to flicker. Once the kindling caught, she added two larger logs, settling them into the growing heat.
Before Sunday could fully settle by the stove, a voice broke the silence—low, amused, and tinged with curiosity.
“What are you doing?”
The sound of a man’s voice made Sunday stumble, her feet tangling beneath her until she tumbled backward onto the cold wooden floor.