Page 1 of Small Town Firsts
BREWING SUNSHINE
A STEAMY SMALL TOWN ROMANCE
ONE
KIRA
COSMIC JOKE
Julyin the orchard was more buzz than hum.
The bees bouncing from apple to apple looking for a spare blossom, the whir of machines cutting back the strawberry plants that had finished producing, and the chipper working overtime on the branches that had fallen in the last storm. But my favorite was the earthy scent of apples almost ready for their season.
The advancing whomp of horse hooves rushing through the acres of trees told me my best friend, Beckett Manning, was nearby. Ever since he’d traded a tractor for his horse, he’d been a menace. At least the tractor had to stay on the main path.
I ducked into the copse of Honeycrisp trees. I wasn’t quite ready to face people just yet. I brushed my fingers over the glossy dark leaves and picked off a few dead ones automatically. I supposed it was pretty basic of me, but they really were my favorite apple.
After twelve years it was a miracle that any apple would be palatable, but they were the ones I looked forward to every year. I ducked under a branch of one of the dwarf trees that were interspersed with the larger, older ones to find just the right one.
There she was along the back of the quadrant. The early sunlight left dappled golden light on the gnarled roots that popped up out of the ground no matter what we did to prevent it. Flaky bark gathered and continued to grow around the grooves I’d made my first summer.
I traced my finger over the jagged KW and year that I’d made with my pocket knife. I dipped my hand into my work pants to find the same scarred red Swiss Army and added this year with a dash.
This would be the first harvest where I wasn’t part of the chaos. I’d been a part of the orchard since I turned seventeen. Working up from seasonal picker for extra cash to lead manager of hiring.
I couldn’t say I’d miss juggling seasonal staffing with the full timers. I’d spent the last three months training my replacement, and Patty was born for the work—far more than I had ever been.
When harvest was upon us, there was a collective hum of rotating seasonal workers underfoot. People came for day labor for extra cash—most of them were guys taking a gap year before starting college or others bumming around in search of jobs that didn’t require much more than a strong back. We kept some, but most moved on. Sometimes they came back to us year after year, happy to work outside in the twilight of summer.
I couldn’t blame them. Central New York was pretty perfect during that time of year. It was how I’d been lured in.
That and a foolish heart that had believed it beat for the eldest Manning son. Beckett had always walked the line of wild and responsible. His motorcycle, denim and leather uniform, and unruly curls were like catnip for half of Turnbull High. The fact that he could straddle the line between jock and badboy certainly helped net him any girl he could ever want.
Luckily I’d come to my senses before he could add me to the roster of his broken hearts club. But instead of Beck, or hisequally delicious brothers, I’d fallen for the sprawling orchard that had expanded every year. And that was the love that had always endured.
Hooves thundered behind me and I knew my time was up.
“I knew I’d find you out here.”
I turned, raising my hand against the sun rapidly rising overhead. I unhooked my sunglasses from my shirt and slipped them on before I grinned up at him. His ever present Yankees cap was threaded through his leather belt on his hip, his hand draped over the pommel, and his knees gently controlling his gray gelding, Storm.
“Being predictable is annoying.”
Beck tipped back his black cowboy hat. “I prefer to call it comfortable.”
“No woman wants to be called comfortable.”
“Aww, c’mon, Key, you know it’s not like that.” He absently rubbed Storm’s side as he sidestepped at the roar of a plane overhead.
I was well aware it wasn’t like that. No man in this entire orchard saw me as a woman. I was Kira, the sturdy friend to all. Kira, the dependable. Kira, the hard worker. Kira, the one who would do any dirty job without a complaint.
“It’s fine.”
He leaned back in his saddle. “I may not know much, but I do know when a woman says it’s fine, it’s anything but.”
I waved him off. “I’m just nervy about saying goodbye to the orchard.”
“You’re not saying goodbye, you’re just moving into the taproom. You’re wasted out here in the trees, I keep telling you that.”
