Falling for Finn (Maplewood Falls #1)

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

OAKLEY

DAY 2

A hard pounding on the door jolts me awake. I look around, noticing it’s still dark outside, then check the time—6:00 a.m.

“I’m coming!” I shout as the pounding grows louder. Stumbling, I trip over my duffel bag on the way to the door. I crack it open to see Finn glaring at me.

“What are you wearing?” he asks, and I notice his eyes slide down my body. I’m wearing nothing but a T-shirt and panties.

“I think it’s called clothes ,” I snap, followed by a yawn. It’s brisk outside, and I shiver. These cool temperatures aren’t something I’m used to.

“Meet me in the truck in five minutes, or you’re walking.” He turns around and storms off.

“That’s not enough time to get dressed!”

“Shoulda set your alarm.” His boots crunch on the gravel as he escapes into the darkness. Seconds later, he crosses the headlights of the truck, and the metal door slams.

“God, I hate him,” I seethe as I turn on the lights, then rush toward my suitcase. I haul it on the bed and rustle through my clothes.

I was so damn exhausted after I settled in last night that I forgot to set my alarm. But he could give me a break, knowing I haven’t adjusted to the time difference. Jet lag is going to kick my ass today.

After I use the bathroom and pin my hair out of my face, I brush my teeth. My body is sore, and if I weren’t on a job, I’d crawl in bed and sleep another twelve hours.

The mornings are usually my oasis. I like to wake up quietly with Mother Nature. Most times, I meditate or stretch while brewing some tea, and then I spend an hour planning the rest of my day.

My thoughts are in complete chaos when I hear him laying on the horn.

I throw on a hoodie and some leggings, then slip on my sandals. After I shove my phone in my pocket, I grab my sketch pad and pencils. I’m annoyed and hungry, but mostly I wish I didn’t have to depend on Mr. Big Grumpy Jerk to take me everywhere.

When I slide into the truck and buckle up, he roughly shifts into drive and speeds off. I’m going to need a mountain of caffeine to get through today.

The headlights lead the way, and low rolling fog billows along the road. I close my eyes and lean my head back, wishing for five more minutes of sleep.

“We’re here,” he mutters, killing the engine. I blink open my eyes, and he’s already hopping out. The jerk doesn’t even wait for me, and I have to rush after him as he enters the inn.

The smell of bacon, fresh-baked bread, and roasting coffee fills the place. We move toward the kitchen, where silver trays of perfectly folded turnovers rest on the counter.

“Good morning,” Willa singsongs, gently placing her hand on my back. “How’d you sleep?”

“Great,” I admit, although it took a while for me to settle down and fall asleep. I don’t mention that I tossed and turned for a couple of hours before drifting off or that the bed was too soft. I’m appreciative of the accommodations, and I’ll never state otherwise.

“Help yourself to some breakfast but make sure to pick up one of our famous apple turnovers. The fruit came from the farm.” She winks, and her chipper attitude is almost contagious.

Finn has already started eating by the time I get in line. After I fill my plate and grab some fresh squeezed orange juice, I take the seat across from him. But I might as well be sitting alone.

I look at the eggs and bacon but decide to start with the pastries. The sweet cinnamon apples and homemade bread have my taste buds screaming. I can’t help the small moan that escapes my throat.

Finn meets my eyes with a popped brow. “Those came from the bakery my mother and Aunt Paisley run.”

“Wow, he speaks,” I taunt, trying to shake myself out of the funk he put me in.

“Sometimes I do.”

“Not in my experience.” I take another bite.

He shoves a forkful of eggs into his mouth and then responds, “You talk enough for us both.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Where I live, it’s customary to make conversation and get to know people,” I tell him as I eat the crispy bacon. It’s exactly the way I like it. The smoky flavor of the meat combined with the perfectly cooked eggs has me contemplating getting seconds. “If every meal is like this, I don’t think I’m ever leaving.”

“Don’t say that,” he states, then when I glare at him, he quickly adds, “You’d never survive the winter months.”

I’m not sure what he means by that, but I know it wasn’t a compliment. I’m tempted to throw the rest of my turnover at him. But I’d never waste something so delicious. Instead, I laugh because that’s all I can do. He still doesn’t crack a smile.

After we finish eating, I thank Willa again and let her know the food was amazing. Finn leads me out toward the bakery. When we round the building and approach the entrance, I notice the full parking lot.

“What time does it open?” I’m shocked it’s already so busy.

“Six on the dot. People start to line up around five so they can get the first round of pastries fresh out of the oven,” he explains, opening the door. The bell above rings, and Finn weaves through the crowd.

I look at all the jams, jellies, and jarred fruits. I take a few pictures of the inside and then catch up to Finn. “So you said people wait outside every day?”

“Except for Sundays when the bakery is closed.”

“Wow,” I barely get out when an older woman with bright-red hair pulls me into a hug.

“And you must be Oakley,” she sweetly says. “I’m Poppy, Finn’s mom and Willa’s daughter.”

“She doesn’t need a family tree,” Finn interjects with disapproval.

“Zip it.” She glares at him. “Anyway, it’s so nice to meet you. Let me introduce you to my twin sister. Paisley !”

So much is going on around me that it’s hard to pay attention to it all. Moments later, another woman who looks like Poppy comes out carrying a tray of individually wrapped cookies. They each have a cute logo sticker on them—apples in a barrel with their name: Bennett Orchard Farm.

“It’s so nice to meet you. Mama has told us about you and your work. Has my nephew been treating you well?” Paisley glances at Finn.

“Well, actually?—”

“I’m fulfilling my duties, as Grandma requested.”

I glance at him right as Paisley reaches over and pinches his side.

“Hey!” he screeches, and I can’t help but smirk at seeing his mom and aunt poke at him. It seems tougher for him to continue with the hard-ass act around his family.

“Be nice!” Poppy warns, wagging her finger at him like he’s five. “If my son doesn’t treat you like a queen, you let me know, and I’ll take care of him.”

I raise a brow and cross my arms. “Like a queen, huh? As in…kissing the ground I walk on and all that?”

“Not happening,” he snaps, matching my stance. “Anyway, anything else you want to see here?”

“Sweetie, don’t listen to him.” Paisley turns to me, then continues, “You don’t have to rush. Finn’s always two steps ahead of everyone. It’s okay to tell him to slow down and smell the roses.”

“I don’t like wasting time. It’s called being efficient . Something that’s necessary when it comes to running the farm and all the businesses attached to it.”

“Loosen up. You’re too serious.” His mom laughs, then glances at me. “Have you figured out what you’re painting yet?”

“No, I hope to have an idea after Finn shows me around today. Crossing my fingers, at least.”

“Once you’re in the orchards, inspiration will call, but don’t let me keep you. Feel free to walk around the bakery and take as many pictures as you like. If you have any questions, let us know.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Yeah, you all have work to do before the celebration,” Finn adds as if he’s the one in control.

Poppy and Paisley laugh at Finn’s lack of humor.

His aunt clears her throat. “More help arrives tomorrow, so you don’t need to worry or micromanage us. We’ve been baking since before you were born.” She gives him a pointed look. “Now take this woman on a proper tour without being a sourpuss the entire time.”

I chuckle, and he groans at her bossing him around.

“I like them,” I admit as Finn leads me around the bakery.

“Everyone does,” he says, then introduces me to the other employees.

He explains the various items sold in the bakery, and I’m impressed by how much they do. Most of the desserts contain apples, but they also make other fruit treats.

Framed awards line the hallway that leads to another shopping area. Many are state- and national-level competitions. Vintage pictures of the store throughout the years are sprinkled along in different sizes. From what I can tell, the bakery and farm have barely changed since it opened for operation a hundred years ago. It’s as if I’ve stepped into a time capsule.

When we say goodbye and leave, the sun hangs lazily in the sky. A cool breeze brushes against my skin, and I shiver, wishing I had brought a jacket and worn better shoes. If Finn notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“So there’s the bakery and the inn. What else is there to see?” I ask while Finn drives.

“We have a distillery for hard cider, a warehouse for the local wholesale fruit orders, and a lot of farmland.” He turns onto the main road.

“Where are we heading now?”

“To the apple orchards.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re driving down a wide dirt road surrounded by trees on both sides. At the end, a large warehouse sits in a clearing with several parked cars outside.

Finn leads the way inside the building. I’m amazed by how large the facility is. It seems to go on forever.

“Most of the fruit is brought here to be processed after it’s picked,” he explains, nearly sprinting down the aisle.

“How many people work here?” I ask, speed-walking to catch up with him.

“A lot.”

His constant vagueness is wearing me down. One minute, he’s hot as fire, and the next, he’s cold as ice. I don’t know how to read him or why he’s so bothered by me being here.

“This is Oakley. The painter,” he says, introducing me to an older gentleman.

“Hi.” I offer my hand, and he takes it with kindness in his eyes.

“I’m Daniel, the general manager. If you have any questions, please ask. We love talking about our process, don’t we, Finn?”

Finn answers with a quick nod before we make our way around the perimeter of the packaging area.

“If you keep moving this fast, you’ll give me shin splints,” I say.

“Keep up, City Girl. There’s no time to waste.”

I laugh at his poor attempt to annoy me. “I’m not a city girl.”

“No?” He flashes a shit-eating smirk, then glances down at my sandals. “Could’ve fooled me.”

As soon as I open my mouth to tell him I was born and raised in small-town Nebraska, he talks over me. “Anything else you wanna see here?”

I refuse to let him dampen my shine, but before I can answer, he heads toward the exit. This man is testing my patience, and by the end of this job, I might not have a sliver left.

I wave goodbye to Daniel and offer a thank-you before stepping outside. Once I’m in the truck, I roll down the window and take photos of the passing orchard as the midmorning sunlight splashes through the trees.

Finn takes me to another area of the farm, and after he parks, we get out. It’s quiet other than the leaves crunching under my feet. Finn doesn’t say much, and for once, I’m happy with his silence.

Closing my eyes, I listen to the wind blow through the branches and realize I haven’t experienced quietness like this since moving to California. Then I look down the long rows of trees that go as far as the eye can see.

Finn looks at his watch, and before he can ask me if I’m done, I speak up.

“I’m not ready to leave yet.” I keep my tone light because I was taught to treat people the way I’d like to be treated, even if he’s been grating on my nerves since the moment we met.

As I take in the fresh air and pretty colors, I realize it’s the first time I’ve been excited to paint since I arrived.

Another few minutes pass, and he lets out a long sigh.

“Ten more minutes, please,” I say, hating how he pulls me from my focus. Once his patience is paper thin, I lead the way to the truck. A part of me finds joy in seeing him so worked up.

“Are you always like this?” I ask, getting settled in my seat.

“Yep. Better get used to it.”

I laugh. “No, thank you. I won’t be here that long anyway, and then it’ll be nothing more than a memory. So try to look on the bright side since you can’t change it. That’s what I’m doing, at least.”

He ignores me, but I shrug it off, then check the time. I’m shocked to see it’s almost noon. Before returning to the inn, Finn veers onto a gravel road that leads to a large red house with a dark brick chimney. The grass is bright green, and the sky’s clouds reflect off the pond across the driveway. Several large barn-like structures surround the compound.

Finn gets out and leans against the hood of the truck.

“My grandparents live there.” He points at the red ranch house. “My mom and dad live in the refurbished old barn behind it, and my aunt’s family lives in the other one. These are the oldest structures on the property. Before I was born, the historic structures were remodeled into homes because my grandma wanted her daughters to stay close.”

“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 the red-, orange-, 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 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 shakes his head. “You’ll 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 about 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 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 as vivid as they are in real life.”

His gaze lingers on the pages and meets mine before bringing his attention 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.”

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 sand on his boots and the rest on the oil. “Now leave it for a couple of hours, then sweep.”

I swear I see a sly smile touch his lips for a moment before he turns away from me.

“Are you always a smart-ass know-it-all?” he asks.

“Yep. Better get used to it.” I throw out the same words he said to me earlier and he chuckles under his breath.

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 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 a hold 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 bet not,” he muses. “You can call or text me if it’s an 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.”