Page 119 of Fall Fake-Out

Then I see Ari, and every coherent thought leaves my mind.

She’s wearing jeans, boots, a white tank top, and an unbuttoned flannel that shifts in the breeze, revealing the curve of her shoulder. Her hair is piled into a messy bun that looks like she spent thirty seconds throwing it together, but it really, really works.

She spots me and smiles, and my stomach fills with a buzz—I think people call them butterflies, but it’s a new sensation to me. One I’m growing to love.

“Hi.” Her smile widens as she reaches me.

“Hi.”

A beat passes. I had an entire weekend to think of something charming to say, but now I can’t recall a single thing I rehearsed.

Ari raises an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m supervising apples.”

Supervising apples? Sheesh, Stevenson.

“Good.” She laughs then looks at the cider press. “Do we know how to work this thing?”

“Dean Alden gave me some instructions. I passed them on to the students.”

She looks around. “I guess we’re open for business, then?”

“I guess so.”

For the next half hour, Ari and I oversee controlled chaos as teenagers take turns helping kids feed apples into the grinder and make fresh cider to taste.

Everything runs smoothly until one of the students waves us over.

“Stevie!” he calls. “The press is jammed.”

I walk over and inspect the old-fashioned hand crank. “It’s not jammed.” I grab the handle. “You’re just not putting enough weight into it.”

“My arm’s tired. Your turn.” The kid walks away without a look back.

Ari smirks. “Classic teenager.”

“You want to give it a try?” I step to the side, giving her space to grab the handle.

“Okay.” She tries, but the crank doesn't move. “It’s harder than it looks.”

“Move over.”

“No, I’m going to get it.”

I laugh despite myself and step behind her. “Let me at least help you get the crank started.”

My hand slides down her arm as I step behind her, my chest brushing her back. My fingers close over hers on the wooden handle. That’s when my pulse jumps to unhealthy levels. Cardiac arrest levels that don’t make sense for a cider press.

“Like this,” I quietly say into her ear, watching how my breath brushes the hair falling out of her bun across the nape of her neck.

The press groans and finally turns. Fresh cider pours into the waiting bucket below. My other hand anchors on her waist for leverage.

We push again. The crank turns easier this time, but my attention keeps snagging on the curve of her neck and the scent of her perfume.

Then I hear the whispers, not just from students but from adults too. My eyes dart around, and I’m painfully aware of how this looks. A week ago, I would've leaned into it. Now? The idea of everybody watching us feels different. Because I’m not doing any of this for them. I’m doing it for me.

I immediately step back.