He jogged around to the driver’s side and climbed in.

“I guess I should have asked what we’re doing before I picked an outfit,” I said.

“Nah, it wouldn’t matter. Whatever I planned, I knew you’d be dressed to kill.”

“Actually, it’s better to wear snug-fitting pants and shoes with decent traction while hunting.”

Dex gave me that one-sided smile I’d come to recognize as his Charlie’s an oddball look.

“Yeah,” he said. “I was just kidding.”

“Um . . . me too.”

We laughed the awkward laugh of two friends on a first date wondering if this was the beginning or the end.

It turned out my heels weren’t the only thing that didn’t pair well with a Jeep—especially one with the top removed so that it was little more than seats in a frame with no roof or doors. As Dexter rocketed down the gravel roads, a tornado of wind whipped my hair into a wild mess. After only a few minutes, I gave up trying to hold it down and let it fly. It reminded me of how it felt to run when I could move at the speed of a vampire—the power, the freedom of it. I unclipped my seat belt and stood up to clear the windshield and let the wind hit me full in the face.

“Whoa, careful,” Dex said, but the smile he gave me was big and genuine.

And it lasted a touch too long.

“Eyes on the road, farm boy,” I said.

He grinned and slowed the Jeep to a safer speed.

I stayed on my feet, and from up here, the smell of Dexter’s cologne was drowned out by something sweeter.

I sniffed the air. “That’s amazing. What is it?”

“Don’t you recognize the smell of apples, city girl?”

“I’ve never smelled an apple like that.”

Dex pointed to a copse of trees in the distance. “There’s an orchard right on the other side of those woods. Morgana Farms. Best Honeycrisp apples around. No more, no less.”

“That phrase.” I looked down at him. “It’s everywhere here. What does it even mean?”

“It’s just an expression, like . . . that’s how it is. No exaggeration or undercut—just the truth.”

I inhaled, getting another taste of the sweetness in the air. “Apples, huh?”

“They also make fresh cider and have hayrides and a haunted house. It’s my favorite time of year.”

I dropped back into my seat. Haunted houses were offensive, the way they depicted vampires as evil and, worse, hideously dressed in cheap fabrics. But I forgave Dex for not knowing that, and the rest of it sounded—and smelled—pretty okay.

“I think maybe it’s my favorite time of year too,” I said.

He reached over to grab my hand.

And he didn’t let go.