"Perhaps not," I mused, taking on a lighter, more playful tone than this moment required. When Linden rolled his eyes again, I added, "I heard what you said. I understand. I appreciate it all—"
"Oh, Jesus, Jasper. Don't start appreciating me again. I know what follows your appreciation and it was hard enough the first time. I don't think I can handle another round of your baking."
"I won't bake ever again if we can drop this and talk about my apples."
Linden laced his fingers in mine. "Just as soon as you say you don't hate me."
A heavy moment passed as we stared at each other. Then, when the pressure of keeping those words inside—the ones that weren't the ones but just about close enough for it to matter—was too great to bear, I said, "I don't hate you. Not even a little."
"I know, Peach. I just like hearing you say it." He squeezed my hand, nodded, and continued, "You don't need to worry about the apples. I'll take care of them."
I didn't like the sound of that. "What does that involve? I'm sure I can handle it."
"As with most things, I have no doubt you can handle it. I'm saying you don't have to."
He smirked at me over the rim of his mug and I was absolutely certain I did not hate this man. Oh, I really, really did not hate him.
"Where do you get this coffee from? I've looked up the shop but every time I try to go there, I can't find it. The place seems to exist in another dimension."
He ran a hand over his beard, saying, "This is why I'm going to pick the last of your apples for you. From the trees you didn't notice until now."
"I can do that."
"It's going to require a ladder so no, babe, you're not."
Regardless of how much I enjoyed the tension that grew inside me when Linden insisted, I glared at him. "What about the apples that have already fallen? What should I do about those?"
"Either leave them where they are and let the deer munch on them or clear them out. Another option is we dig a compost heap and let them decompose on the edge of the woods. The woodchucks will burrow into it but they're harmless."
"There are woodchucks out there?"
Linden stood, rounded the table, and jerked my chair back. He bent, wrapping his arms around me and pressing his face to my neck. "Just so you know, I love it when you're impossible."
22
Linden
"What are you supposed to be?"
I turned away from filling the candy bowl and found Jasper crossing between our yards. I gestured to my black and red flannel shirt and red suspenders. "Isn't it obvious? I'm a lumberjack."
Her shoulders slumped as she sighed. "How is that a costume? You wore that shirt last week."
"I just said you needed a costume. I never said it had to be a complicated one." I eyed her black and white dress and cherry red heels. "Tell me about this."
"Since I thought I had to really dive in, as you'd suggested on several occasions, I went for the Cruella de Vil vibe." She ran a hand over the spiked red headband. "People always ask me if I'm trying to look like Cruella or Moira Rose when I wear this dress. That's why I hardly ever wear it. It's not like I need any reminders, you know, but I thought it would work. If I'd known I could've gotten away with something else—"
"Nope, nope. You're fine. Don't question it."
I turned back to the candy bowl because two things were happening to me right now. One, Jasper looked hot as hell. She was winning the shit out of the sexy Halloween costume thing and she wasn't even trying. I wanted to drag her inside and do terrible things to her while she wore nothing but those heels.
And two, I hated the self-deprecating comments she made. Hated them. I didn't know how this woman could be both a bone-crushing kraken queen who had more power in her little finger than most people could conjure in a lifetime, and the source of her own poison. It didn't make any sense to me though it did make me irrationally furious. I wanted to slap the shit out of the people who put that garbage in her head.
"You're going to need a coat," I said over my shoulder. "It's getting down into the low forties tonight."
There was a pause that stretched long enough to tell me I should've found a way to say something nice. She was trying and it was Halloween. I didn't have to focus on the negative simply because it knocked me upside the head.
"Yeah. I'll be right back," she said.
I dumped another bag of candy into the bowl. "For fuck's sake," I muttered to myself.
Abandoning the candy, I headed inside to grab the items I'd prepared for tonight. Trick-or-treating ran two hours past sunset, and while we didn't get too many kids coming this far down the street, I liked to have all my bases covered.
When I returned to the driveway, Jasper was there in a long, creamy white coat and black gloves trimmed with faux fur. If it didn't feel so wrong and harmful to me, I would've told her she made one fine Cruella.
Instead, I said, "Those shoes, Peach."
She popped one leg. "What about them?"
I glanced at the street, checking for early trick-or-treaters. Empty. "Can I get them over my shoulders? Or digging into my ass? Because…damn, babe, you make them look good."
"Why, thank you." She glanced at the bowl. "How does this work? What do we do?"
"We hand out candy, Jasper. It's Halloween."
"Oh, I know that," she replied. "But it's clear you have a strategy in place. You have a system. You might even have trade secrets. I don't know. I'm new to all this."
I handed her the box I'd brought out from the kitchen. "Stay right here." I headed into the garage, grabbed the beach chairs stored there, and returned to the driveway. "Here's the trade secret. We fill the bowl, set up the chairs, and kick back with a cocktail." I pulled the insulated drink bottles from the box. "My first Halloween in this house, I'd forgotten all about trick-or-treaters but Midge covered for me. She also had the beverages covered. White Russians."
"Somehow that doesn't surprise me."
I laughed. "She didn't let me forget about the candy after that."
"Why do I suspect she didn't let you forget the drinks either?"
"That lady kept a strict cocktail schedule. Nothing got in the way." I held out my hands. "That's the system. That's the strategy."
"And the secrets." She clutched the insulated bottle to her chest. "Let's do it."
We stationed ourselves at the end of the drive, candy propped on the overturned box and blankets draped over our laps because it was fucking freezing now that the sun was past the horizon.
"I got an email from Preston this morning," she said, her gaze fixed on her blanket.
Since I had no patience for the ex-husband, no patience whatsoever, I heaved out an irritated breath. "What does that fucking guy need now?"
Still occupied with straightening the blanket, she replied, "That fucking guy used to be my best friend in D.C."
"Best friends treat each other better than he treated you. So do husbands. It's a damn good thing he's on the other side of the ocean." When she shrugged like that wasn't the cold, hard truth, I asked, "What did he have to say for himself?"