Falling in Vermont (Cozy Nights in Vermont #2)

Chapter 6

Chapter Six

SOPHIA

A few days later, the fall morning was brisk and fog loomed on the edges of the fields. Sophia cozied into her scarf, nuzzling it over her nose and delighting in being cold as people milled around the pumpkin patch.

Attendance had doubled overnight as word got out that the Jameson Family Farm was now a proper pumpkin patch experience with free donut bites, hot drinks, and a photo area. The coffee had been Blake’s idea to make sure she wouldn’t freeze to death. Though her toes stayed toasty thanks to the heater he’d rigged up.

She’d been inspired to make something sweet that morning, so she put out three versions of a molasses cookie recipe she’d been struggling with onto the tables. She couldn’t decide what it needed. More molasses? More cloves? Neither and just make it chock-full of walnuts? Hopefully Blake’s customers would help her decide which of her recipe risks was the best bet.

Blake had been actively avoiding her the last two days; she could feel it. She’d walk into the living room, and there’d practically be a dust cloud from him running away. He’d even taken his protein shakes and whatever food she could convince him to grab to the barn.

But there had been a moment between them; she was sure of it. Maybe even several moments . When he’d burst into the cottage, he’d been so protective he’d looked feral.

Which was silly. I’m an eldest daughter extraordinaire. No one protects me. I protect myself, thank you very much. I have for thirty-two years, and I will for thirty-two more.

Young women walked into the pumpkin patch, taking silly videos as they laughed together. A persistent irritation tap-tap-tapped on her shoulder, reminding her that she should be monetizing her content right now. Recording the vibes, making cute faces, buying the trendiest thing so she could put it in a video.

But she needed five more minutes of the chill wind against her skin and the smell of woodsmoke in the air.

Five more minutes of families wandering through the vines, picking the pumpkin or squash they’d take home and make their own. Maybe they’d bond over pumpkin guts spilled on the kitchen table. She bet the boy holding the small pumpkin over his head would ask his dad to carve a scary face.

What Blake grew and sold here was real . It made its way into people’s family memories. She wanted that sense of purpose for herself, desperately.

But how?

A group of older ladies browsed through the pumpkin patch, all done up in their cute fall sweaters. Their bobs of white and gray hair in chic styles stood out against the oranges and reds of the maple trees. Two wandered over with small pumpkins in their arms.

“Ooh, are these the free treats made by a famous chef?” one of the ladies said with a twinkle in her eye. “The owners at the inn told us to make a pit stop here.”

“I don’t know about famous, but I’d love your opinion of which of these cookies you like better,” she said, pointing to the three trays. “I’m testing out which recipe I should put in my new cookbook.”

The woman tried a bite and waved her friend over. “Mary, you’ll love these. Come try.”

A woman with iron-gray hair and a sour face walked up. “I wish it wasn’t so cold today. And that the car was a bit closer to the pumpkins,” she said to Sophia with a resigned sigh.

Looks like Mary’s having a rough day. What a treat for me.

“Are these full of sugar? You young people make things too sweet .” The older woman looked irritated, as if Sophia had done something wrong to her.

Swallowing a growl and an eye roll, Sophia pointed to her recipe number three with the biggest smile she could muster. “This batch has less sugar than the others, but more molasses and cloves. I’d love to know what you think.”

Mary huffed, taking a small cookie and biting into it. Sophia steeled herself for the reaction.

The older woman went still. Her brow furrowed in surprise.

Sophia waited, holding her breath. Then Mary blinked eyes that had turned…teary?

Is…is she crying? Oh shit. “Is everything okay?” Sophia asked, her chest tightening with nerves.

Mary took another quick bite and chewed thoughtfully, then closed her eyes. A wide, happy smile replaced her frown. She clapped her hands together with excitement, and a tear ran down her cheek.

She wiped it away. “Blanche,” Mary called to one of the ladies. “C’mere. Hurry.”

The first woman looked as confused as Sophia felt. “Mary, are you okay?”

Mary ignored her and grabbed the plate, holding it out for a woman with long gray hair who walked up in more hippie-like attire.

Blanche bit into the cookie and gasped, bending over with animated surprise.

“Doesn’t it taste just like Mom’s?” Mary said through a wavering voice.

Blanche clutched the cookie to her chest. “Oh my god. Ohmygod it does ,” she said in a wobbly voice, a tear coming to her eye.

This was not what I expected when I accidentally over-poured the molasses this morning, Sophia thought with surprise, trying to get a handle on the situation.

Blanche turned to explain. “We’ve tried and tried to find our mom’s gingersnap recipe. Tried a thousand different versions but we could never get it right.” She shook her head in amazement as she took another bite.

Mary stood nibbling on the cookie, lost in her own thoughts. Sophia could see the ghost of the girlhood still inside of her, even decades later.

Maybe that never went away.

“She’d make these every day after school.” Mary huffed out a laugh, shaking her head and closing her eyes, savoring it. “It’s like she’s right here.”

Oh, my heart. These women were easily in their seventies, but all it took was a single bite to bring them back to their mom’s kitchen.

Sophia found her own eyes tearing up. Food was life, indeed. How many times had she thought of her nonna when eating tortellini in brodo ?

This. This was real. What she’d made finally meant something to someone. “It’s a molasses cookie, actually,” Sophia said with kindness. “Plus, I used extra strong cloves and about half the sugar as normal.”

Blanche slapped her forehead. “ That’s why our attempts never tasted right.”

“Can I buy the rest?” Mary asked suddenly, looking nervous—as if Sophia would dare take away the memory of her mother.

“Please, take them,” Sophia said, offering an empty Tupperware container. “I’m happy to share the recipe, if you’d like.”

Blanche clapped her hands and Mary nodded emphatically with wide, teary eyes.

Sophia grabbed their email addresses and copied the recipe from her notes app, noting the modified ratio she’d used, the specific cookie sheet, and even the brand of ingredients so they could replicate it at home.

She double-checked that they received the email. “Let me know if you have any questions, okay?” A thought occurred to her. “Would you…” Sophia’s voice faltered.

She stared at the women who had no idea what impact they’d just had on her. “Would you be okay if I named the recipe in my cookbook after your mom?”

Blanche sniffed as she grabbed Mary’s hand. Mary nodded with a watery smile. “Minnette was her name.”

“Thank you,” Sophia said. “Minnette’s Molasses Cookies it is.”

They exchanged thank-yous and hugs. Mary walked away holding the cookies as though they were precious cargo, smiling and bubbly.

A memory crashed through Sophia’s brain watching the women walk away. Instantly she was back in her childhood suburb, walking with her nonna after school to deliver a lasagna to a family down the street who’d had a baby. Or bringing a pot of pastina with its tiny, cheesy noodles and fragrant broth to their neighbor who’d been so sick he could barely stand. Or wrapping delicate, wafer-thin pizzelle cookies for the tattooed mailman who’d always made sure her nonna’s steps were cleared when it snowed.

Or, or, or, she thought as the slideshow of memories shuttled past faster and faster. Seeing their faces light up was always Sophia’s favorite part.

She sighed wistfully. Maybe someday she’d get to feel this bubbling happiness in her heart every single day.

* * *

Wet orange leaves slapped under Sophia’s bourbon-colored boots as she walked along a Clovely side street. She’d woken up early and decided to treat herself to breakfast.

She’d slept pretty well, but had a lucid, hot— hot —hot sex dream about Blake.

Again.

In the dream, he’d taken her from behind in front of the fireplace, and it had felt real enough that she’d been confused when she woke up.

And so horny that it hurt.

She had to get out of the house and away from his pheromones to clear her head.

What would be more wholesome and distraction-free than a New England inn on a rainy autumn morning?

The Clovely Inn was wrapped in charm, with twinkling fairy lights draped along the banister of its wide wraparound porch. Decorative gourds and pumpkins were bunched in groups along the outside of the porch for festive fall decoration. The morning was gray and misty, and the lanterns leading up the cobblestone walkway glowed with warmth.

A path meandered through a small garden bursting with vibrant fall colors: bright yellows, reds, and purples. It was exactly how she imagined a perfect Vermont inn. The red shutters stood out against the classic white wood siding. The path led to a beautiful hand-hewn door.

As she was about to step onto the cobblestones, dreaming about what Beverly might serve for breakfast, Blake walked around the curved porch of the inn with armfuls of hay bales.

Jesus , he was handsome. Even with a beanie pulled down over his wavy hair. She wanted to kiss the freckles on his cheeks. See him blush. Back him into the barn he was always in and kiss his pumpkin-covered brains out. Maybe beg him to reenact her dream.

She still hadn’t figured out how to seduce him since he would barely stay in the same room as her.

A warm smile grew on his face as he saw her, and he nodded in greeting. “You’re up early,” he called as he lifted three hay bales from his truck.

He had on a long-sleeve Henley shirt with the sleeves pushed up, and his forearm rippled as he held the heavy bales, walking them to the side porch.

Hot.

She wandered over to the back entrance of the inn where his truck was, now wishing she’d done more than pop her hair into a messy bun and slide gloss on her lips. “Thought I’d work on my content this morning and grab breakfast in the dining room.”

The back door of the inn opened. A small man with a dapper haircut in a half-zip sweater came out.

“Ooh Blakey, these will be perfect,” he said in a slow, thick Georgia accent, clapping at the hay bales and pumpkins stacked on the large wraparound porch.

“Sophia, this is my Uncle Alan. Uncle Alan and my uncle Jerry own the inn.”

Alan had a warm smile with a twinkle in his eye that gave him an elven look. He clasped her hand in both of his. “Well, aren’t you just pretty as a peach?”

She liked him instantly.

“Sophia is here working on her cookbook,” Blake said with a proud smile, leaning on the side of his truck as he took off his work gloves. “When she’s not dazzling the pumpkin patch customers.”

“Blakey has told us all about what y’all are doin’ at the farm. I sent a van load of tourists your way yesterday who wanted a Vermont pumpkin patch experience,” Alan said with delight. “So what brings you here on this fine drizzly morning?”

She hefted her tote bag higher on her shoulder. “Thought I’d get a little work done, and grab some breakfast if the restaurant’s open.”

“It sure is. You just come on in with me, darlin’.” He took her arm as they walked around the porch to the front entrance.

Blake turned back toward his truck, but Alan was faster and grabbed his arm. “You are not gonna let this gorgeous young lady have breakfast alone, are you?” He arched an eyebrow at Blake.

Blake sighed. “She’s busy?—”

“Nonsense. Everyone needs to eat breakfast.” Alan shooed Blake up the inn’s porch stairs. They followed behind him.

“So you’re Blake’s uncle?” She looked from the short, petite man to the tall, could-lift-a-tree-if-necessary man in front of her. She didn’t see the family resemblance.

“By marriage. But Jerry and I have been together for decades so I feel like Blake’s my very own.” He patted Blake’s arm as he held the door for them, and Blake beamed down at his uncle.

Adorable .

“Breakfast this morning is heaven. Bev made a quiche and these pumpkin spice latte muffins I just can’t keep my hands off of,” he said with a sparkling laugh.

He ushered them inside, and Sophia was dumbstruck as she crossed the threshold.

The scent of expensive cedar and white tea wrapped around her. To the left of the entry, a huge open-style hearth crackled inside a masculine library that looked like it doubled as a lounge. Large velvet chairs surrounded the hearth, and rows of books ran up to the fifteen-foot ceiling.

As she crossed to the dining room, following Alan, they passed a beautiful live-edge reception desk. Her boots echoed on the slate tiles, and she was discombobulated at the comfortable yet opulent feel of a small, historic inn in Vermont.

“Now, have you been here before?” Alan asked.

“Uh, no,” Sophia said, stuttering as she took it in. “This is gorgeous.”

“Jerry and I just had a ball redoing it, and then we finally convinced Bev to move back to do the kitchen, and voila! Oh, there’s my better half,” he said, waving to a tall man.

Sophia could see the family resemblance as the broad-shouldered man with graying auburn hair walked through the lobby. His face was warm and fatherly as he smiled at Blake.

He held out a hand to Blake to shake and clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks so much for bringing all the pumpkins and hay bales over. They look just perfect.”

“I’ll be damned if we lose another Fall Festival contest to Sally’s Salads,” Alan said. “Why don’t we pop into the kitchen to see Bev? I think you met her, right?” Alan looped his arm through hers and took her through the dining room. “She said she’d met a gal that had caught Blakey’s attention.”

Her eyes went wide and she pressed her lips together, trying not to freak out.

Blake sighed. “Uncle Alan?—”

“We just love Blake,” Alan interrupted, as he pushed through the double-swing doors. “We like to check up on him to make sure he’s eating an actual meal. Ah, shoot.” He looked at his smartwatch as a beep went off. “I gotta see to the checkout desk. Show her a good time, Blake.”

Blake looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him up, thoroughly embarrassed by his family. “Sorry,” he mouthed, but his eyes danced. She could tell he secretly loved his family’s teasing.

Beverly set an overflowing basket with bright green carrot tops on a food prep station. “Did he show you his protein drink collection?”

Blake wiped a hand down his face, rolling his eyes. “Come deliver hay bales, they said. It’ll take five minutes, they said…”

“Yes,” Sophia said to Bev, hand slapping down on the metal prep table. “Horrified.”

“Horrified,” Beverly echoed back as she squeezed Blake’s side in a warm half-hug. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of times I’ve tried to teach him how to cook.”

“And I appreciate it, but I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.” He shook his head, crossing his arms with a resigned nod. “Alan promised Sophia a tour of the kitchen.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m sure you’re busy,” Sophia said, knowing any distraction in a kitchen could cause chaos.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Beverly said with a smile, leaning her hip against the prep counter. “I’m waiting on the last quiche to bake before I start on lunch. Actually, while you’re here”—Beverly turned to the stove where a pot simmered—“I could use another set of trained taste buds.”

“Oh, I’m not formally trained or anything,” Sophia said, embarrassed.

She ladled a chicken and herb broth into a bowl and gave Sophia and Blake each a tasting spoon. “Based on what I ate at the farm, I think you qualify. Plus, I’m recovering from a cold so my taste buds are a little off. Something is missing in the soup I threw together.”

Sophia was excited to actually collaborate with somebody. “My nonna and her friends would make sauce and then quiz me on what ingredients were missing, so I feel right at home.”

“Sounds like you were formally trained.”

“Yeah, just by the little Italian grandma mafia.”

She and Blake dipped the spoons into the bowl. Blake shrugged. “Tastes good to me?”

Sophia took a taste, thinking through the seasonings, how the flavor profile was balanced. Too salty? Too overpowering?

“It’s good. It’s a little…thin,” Sophia said finally, searching for the right word. “It needs more umami flavor. So…mushrooms?”

Beverly took a new tasting spoon and dipped it into the bowl. “It is mushrooms,” she said, snapping. “Thank you. It was driving me nuts.”

A server pushed in the swinging double doors. “Table sixteen has offered to name their firstborn child after you if they can have the recipe for the muffins.”

Beverly threw her head back and laughed in surprise. She walked to an old wooden writing desk and pulled out a pre-printed card.

“I get this more than you’d think,” she said over her shoulder. “Here you go, but tell them to use my middle name, Ann,” she called after the waiter as he sped away. “Beverly is a terrible name for a baby.”

“That must feel so amazing,” Sophia said in awe.

“There’s something really satisfying”—Beverly had a dreamy smile as she pulled out mushrooms from the fridge—“something primal about feeding people. It can turn a bad day around, fuel people, inspire them.”

“Could I get a special-order plain omelet?” the waiter said, popping in from the swinging double doors.

Blake started toward the door. “Sorry, we’ll get out of your hair.”

“Stop by any time,” Beverly said with a wink as she turned around to collect the eggs from the gorgeous see-through chef’s fridge.

“You are so lucky to have them,” Sophia said as they walked into the dining room. “And they obviously love you so much.”

Blake stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I love ’em back, even when they tease me. Sorry about all of that. They just want me to find any red-blooded woman and produce lots of great-nieces or nephews for them to dote on.”

A shiver went down her spine at picturing Blake being a dad. Giving piggyback rides, teaching them how to plant vegetables, fiercely protecting them. “They’d be lucky kids.”

He looked up in surprise and then shook his head. “I’m just trying to stay on top of what’s already at the farm. The—the work, I mean.” His eyes darted briefly to her lips, and he took a step back as he bit his lip.

And there went that blush again.

God, what she wouldn’t give for him to be on top of her. Maybe her whole down payment of the house she was saving for. A kidney. Her cast-iron skillet. Anything.

“Maybe we should check out the competition. See how your pumpkin patch is doing compared to other ones in the area,” she offered.

He smiled at that. “Yeah? You’d do that?”

“Sure,” she said with excitement as she pulled out a chair. “Let’s go tomorrow. We can see how to up your pumpkin patch game.”

He stood, hands in his pockets at the table.

“Aren’t you having breakfast?”

He looked over his shoulder. “I’d love to, but I’m really behind.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “Gotta run three more errands after I finish unloading here. And hey,” he said before he walked away. “It’s our pumpkin patch game now, okay?”

She smiled, liking being included. “Okay. I’ll see you at home.”

He swallowed. “See you at home,” he said with a bewildered smile and walked out.

Home echoed in her chest.

Blake felt a lot like home already, she realized. That was a dangerous thing rfor someone who was leaving in four weeks to feel.

She pulled out her social media planner with resignation.

The existential pit of dread in her stomach loomed large. She stared at the blank page, utterly at a loss. No energy left to think about what could be funny or cute or could gain her more followers.

The eighteen recipes tapped on her shoulder, insisting they were more important. And more fun.

I could do a countdown, she thought feebly as she sipped the Clovely Inn’s version of a hazelnut latte.

The blank page screamed judgment at her as she looked down. She’d be here all day trying to think of the forty new videos she’d need to make for the upcoming month.

What if…what if I just allowed myself to focus on the recipes?

The thought of deleting her account, the one where all her followers were her bread and butter, was so enticing. No, I just need a little time . Instead, she edited together clips in a random assortment that she’d taken over the last few days with some moody music.

Over it, she put the text, brB—Gone Falling in Vermont for 2 weeks.

Before she could change her mind, she punched the post button, her heart thundering in her ears. When she saw the confirmation of the post appearing on her feed and a few likes start to trickle in, she gulped.

I’ve really done it. I’ve really given myself two weeks of no content creation time. I can just focus on what I need to do, and maybe —she looked around at the dream come true she was sitting in— maybe enjoy myself.

She deleted the app from her phone and immediately felt like thirty pounds of pressure had been lifted from her chest. She needed to go—do— make .

She grabbed a muffin as she dashed out of the dining room after leaving cash with the waiter.

She had things to make.

As she got close to the pumpkin farm, cars unexpectedly lined the road.

What the heck?

Getting closer to the pumpkin farm entrance, she realized people were waiting to get in.

Technically, the pumpkin patch opened in two minutes, but Thursday mornings were usually slow. Blake must still be in town running errands.

She slowed her car to a stop, flabbergasted, and rolled down her window as a dad with two kids in touristy-looking sweatshirts peered in. “You might need to park back on the road.”

“I, uh…live here. Work here.” Really, really want to bang the farmer here. “I can let you in.”

The dad stood back. “That would be great. Oh, are you the lady with the amazing cookies? My mom told us about you.”

A smile blazed onto her face. “Uh, no cookies today, but happy for you to try other things I’m making.” She’d been planning to make pumpkin croissants to sample that afternoon but she’d have to do with the leftover baking experiments from her apple crumble tart misadventure last night.

The crowd parted, and the dad swung open the small gate so she could drive through. The crowd— crowd !—flowed in behind her.

She wiggled with happiness as she drove in, too excited to talk to all their future customers.