“Wow, I want to see the inside,” I admit.
Finn glances at me. “I'm sure you'll be invited to dinner at least once before you leave.”
My lips turn up into a smile because I hope he’s right.
I can't take enough pictures as I breathe in the fresh air. When I glance over at Finn, I notice his demeanor has changed. It might be the first time I've seen him relax since I got here. He seems lost in his thoughts with his arms crossed over his chest as he gazes into the hill of surrounding trees. I snap a quick photo of him, then send it to my sister. She’ll appreciate that when she’s able to check her phone at work.
I could stay here all day and stare at the picket fence, surrounded by reds, oranges, and brown-colored trees and structures.
His eyes trail over and meet mine.
“It's beautiful here,” I whisper, the wind capturing my words.
“My great-great-grandparents started everything right here. I’m the fifth generation working this land. These buildings were constructed around the same time the first apple harvest was picked. The smaller barn was first, and they lived there while they finished the main house. Most of the wood you see is, well, a hundred years old.”
“Incredible.” I’m at a loss for words because I don’t think I’ve ever been this close to something so historic. If I could stay here all day, I would.
“Can I get closer?”
“Sure, feel free to walk around,” he tells me.
I amble past the pond and walk down the small driveway that ends at the base of the rolling hills. I climb halfway up and turn to take in the view. The different hues and contrasts have my creativity nearly bursting at the seams.
When my stomach growls, I know it's time to go, even though I don't want to. I take a lot of pictures. However, this scene will be imprinted in my memory for the rest of my life because it's unique in a way that I can't describe. A sense of calm washes over me, and I wish I could stay here forever and take it in.
I return to the truck and take a few more photos before joining Finn inside.
He watches me as I hurry to open my sketchbook.
“I have actual work to do after we eat,” he says as I focus on my pencil and paper.
After I outline the primary lines, I reply, “Great. Let’s go.”
He flashes me a look like he doesn’t understand the language I just spoke.
“You'll just get in my way.”
I narrow my eyes. “I'm supposed to be learning about the orchard and farm. So right now, you're wasting my time.”
He sucks in a deep breath and bites down on his lip as if he’s holding back. “Fine.”
That was too easy.
While we quickly eat lunch at the inn, I can't stop drawing. Usually, I'd give my attention to my company, but Finn is incapable of having a conversation, so I don’t even feel guilty for it. When I'm in the zone, I tend to get lost in my work. It’s obvious he doesn’t care anyway.
“You don't need to look at the pictures you took?” he asks as I perfectly line up the main house and pond.
“I have a photographic memory. Beautiful scenes are imprinted in my mind, and I can draw or paint from memory. The pictures were just for keepsakes and to show my sister.”
“So is sketching a part of your painting process?” he asks around a mouthful.
I give him a smile—appreciating that he’s intrigued—and swipe loose strands of blond hair from my face. “Yeah, kinda. I like to sketch the scene on a smaller scale first, then sleep on my ideas before transferring it to the canvas. It's easier for me to visualize the final product this way. Then when I have actual photos, I use them to color match because I want them to be just as vivid as they are in real life.”
His gaze lingers on the pages and meets mine before bringing his attention back to his food. I can tell he's impressed, even if he tries to act like he isn’t.
“We should probably get going,” he tells me when I take the last bite of my club sandwich.
“As always,” I singsong, then stand and put up my dishes.
We make our way to one of the maintenance barns a few miles past the cottage. Finn pretends I don't exist as he moves inside and grabs different tools.
“What are you doing?” I ask as he lifts the hood of the tractor.
“Oil change. We’ll use it for the tours next weekend.” He gets to work, and instead of watching him, I stand at the entryway and stare at the fields. That is until I hear a thud followed by Finn cursing under his breath.
The oil pan is tipped over, and oil spreads across the concrete and his boots. He grabs a towel, but before he throws it on top of the mess, I stop him.
“You should put sand on it instead.” I point at the fabric he's gripping. “Not that.”
“Sand?” He gives me an incredulous look.
“Yeah, it absorbs the liquid and makes it easier to clean. Can also use kitty litter, but I doubt you have any of that nearby.”
He grabs a shovel leaning against the wall, then pushes it toward me. Wearing a cocky smirk, he says, “Be my guest, then.”
I take it from him, walk outside, and dig into the ground. When I return, I sprinkle half of the dirt on his boots and the rest on the oil. “Now leave it for a couple of hours, then sweep.”
I think I see a sly smile touch his lips for a moment before he turns his back toward me.
“Are you always a smart-ass know-it-all?” he finally asks.
“Yep. Better get used to it.” I throw him the same words he said to me earlier. I can tell he wants to laugh, but he holds back.
After he finishes, Finn grabs a set of keys from the wall and cranks the tractor. Thirty minutes pass as he tinkers with different items, and I can’t stop thinking about getting my paints out.
“You can take me back to the cottage now,” I tell him, ready to get started.
“This too boring for you?” he quips. “Not as exciting as city life, huh?”
“You're not the only person who has work to do before next weekend,” I remind him. “I doubt I’ll find a way to add this into the painting.”
He snorts and shrugs. “Fair enough.”
Finn drives me to the cottage, and before I get out, he speaks. “I'll be back in time to take you to dinner.”
“What if I need something in the meantime or to get ahold of you?”
“I'm sure I can get you a farm truck. That’s if a city girl like yourself can drive a stick?”
I groan, hating that I can’t prove him wrong, again.
“To be fair, there aren’t a lot of big farm trucks in the town I live in,” I retort.
“I bet not,” he muses. “You can call or text me if it's an absolute emergency.”
I open my phone, and he gives me his number. I program his contact as Mr. Big Grumpy Jerk, then shoot him a text. When his cell vibrates in his pocket, he narrows his eyes at me.
“Just making sure you didn't give me a fake number.”
He scoffs. “I should've thought of that.”
CHAPTER FOUR
FINN
DAY 3
Oakley will never understand our culture or how passionate we are about the farm. Sure, it’s beautiful to look at, but she’ll leave and forget it ever existed like all the other tourists do. The orchard remains a snapshot in their minds, a memory of something they did for fun one time.