I list it off, and something warm blooms in my chest. It’s been so long since I’ve had girlfriends. Since I’ve had anyone besides Art and now Lance. Rosalie’s there, but she’s got a wall built by the name of Benjamin Voltaire, so we only really talk when we work the same shifts.
This feels nice.
We say our goodbyes. Lance carries my basket to the checkout without asking, and I don’t comment on it, even though it makes something flutter in my chest that I ruthlessly ignore.
Chapter 27
Lance
We’re almost to the truck when genevieve stops.
“Wait.” She grabs my arm, fingers curling into my jacket. “Apple cider.”
I stare down at her. “What?”
“Apple cider.” She points toward a small stand at the edge of the parking lot with an older woman serving steaming cups from a thermos, and a hand-painted sign reading Fresh Pressed Cider—$3. “I need some.”
“You need some.”
“Desperately.” She’s already tugging me toward it, and I let her, because apparently I’ve lost all ability to tell this woman no. “It’s October, Lance. You can’t have October without apple cider. It’s basically illegal.”
She lets go to dig through her purse, and I immediately miss the warmth.
Pathetic.
I hand the woman a ten before Genevieve can find her wallet. “Two, please.”
The woman hands us the cups, and right before we walk away she smiles. “Where’s Art today?”
We both freeze.
“You know how it is, ma’am.” I clear my throat. “He’s always doing something.”
She grins and shakes her head. “Good for him. Maybe you could convince him to follow in his father’s footsteps one day. Rosebrook Falls could use a leader like Arthur.”
I force a smile and nod, then hover my palm on Genevieve’s lower back and steer her across the square toward the gazebo before anyone else can remind me whose girlfriend I’m buying cider for.
Genevieve wraps both hands around her cup like a lifeline. The afternoon light catches her hair, turning it molten, and I have to look away before I do something stupid like brush that strand of copper off her cheek.
“There’s a bench,” she says, nodding toward a wooden seat near the edge of the square, partially hidden by a massive oak shedding gold and red leaves. “Can we sit for a minute? I want to enjoy this before we go back.”
I should say no. Should tell her the chicken’s going to go bad, that I have things to do, any of the thousand excuses that would put distance between us. But when we go back home, she’s going to cook.For Art.And I’ll have to think about how he’s coming over, how our bubble of fake reality is ending. How he didn’t tell me he was back.
“Yeah. Okay.”
We settle onto the bench, and I feel her warmth through my jacket. The cider is sweet when I sip it. Around us, the square hums with late-afternoon life—dogs being walked, a mother with a stroller, an old couple sharing a newspaper.
Normal life. The kind I stopped believing in a long time ago.
“This is nice,” Genevieve murmurs, tipping her head back to watch the leaves drift down. One lands in her hair, and she doesn’t notice.
I reach over and pluck it without thinking.
She turns, green eyes wide, and I hold up the leaf like evidence. “You had a leaf.”
“Thanks.”
I let it fall and take another sip of cider, my fingers tingling from where they wrapped around her hair.