Chapter Thirty-Three

Fall Fest has been keeping Isaiah, me, and the entire committee massively busy.

Everly took on the task of working with McNally’s Farm. They’ve offered to donate an obscene number of pumpkins for our pumpkin- car ving contest on Monday.

Leilani volunteered to organize the delivery and setup of the hay bales so Tuesday’s corn maze races can happen.

Though they’re not officers, Sophie and Marisol are helping with the Fall Feast on Wed nesday— mostly because Noah is part of our school’s culinary program. There are a lot of details to sort, and I don’t envy them.

Finally, Hudson has taken on the bonfire, slated to happen on Thursday on the west lawn of the school. (Admittedly, Hudson said he wanted that for the chance to flirt with firefighters.)

And all of us are pitching in to help with the pep rally, the carnival, and the homecoming dance, since these huge events bookend the week and require the most work. We have to do things like manage deliveries from May Flowers and Santiago’s Orchard, pick up Fall Fest cookies from Petey’s Sweeties, and confirm so (!) many (!) things (!) with Wild Amusements, a local rental company that helps pull off elaborate events like the carnival.

At least the football game is handled by athletics, thank God.

For today’s agenda, though, Isaiah and I are taste-testing caramel apples in the school kitchen to determine which flavors we should offer as part of the carnival. Did we volunteer for one of the easiest assignments? Yes. But have we also been working our butts off on everything else? Yes. So don’t we kind of deserve something simple and tasty?

The two of us spend our lunch break in the culinary arts classroom, wearing black aprons alongside Noah, who graciously volunteered to help us.

“All right. So. I’ve got you two all set up with everything you need.” Noah points at a glass bowl beside a bag of caramels and some sugar for melting. Next to that, he’s set out an assortment of toppings, like sprinkles, different types of nuts, and chocolate chips. Isaiah and I are supposed to choose which toppings work best. “Utensils are over there. Bowls are on the stovetop. Skewered apples are already chilled in the fridge.” He motions behind us.

“This is some serious service. No wonder Sophie’s into you,” I tease.

Noah lets out a laugh. “I aim to please.”

Isaiah nods. “Yeah, thanks for doing this, man. So, can we just . . . do our thing?”

“Go for it. Just make sure you wash everything and clean your station when you’re all done. I’m actually going to duck out and grab lunch with my girl,” Noah says. “Assuming you guys aren’t going to get into any trouble.”

“We’ll be perfect little angels,” I promise.

Noah unties his apron and slips it off. “I’d expect nothing less. I’ll be back after lunch to check on you.” He walks toward the door and hangs his apron on one of the hooks. “Don’t make a mess, okay? Mr. Elder will kill me.”

“Throw caramel all over the walls. Got it,” Isaiah teases.

“Don’t even joke,” Noah scolds.

“Tell Sophie we said hi!” I call after him, and he gives us both a wave as he slips out the door.

“Okay, so . . . what do we do first?” Isaiah asks.

I reach for a piece of paper lying on the counter. “Looks like Noah left us instructions.”

Isaiah leans closer to me to take a look. “ ‘Step One: Melt the caramel,’ ” he reads. Then he looks at me. “That’s it?”

“I don’t know how, do you?” I sigh. “To Google.”

Isaiah takes the lead as I read out instructions for him to follow. It seems simple enough to microwave the caramel in thi rty- second increments, then mix in some salt and heavy cream. I watch Isaiah’s muscles flex as he expertly whips the ingredients together.

Yes, I’m totally ogling.

He proudly holds up the bowl for me to see. “Look how good this looks. I’m basically a chef now.”

“Basically,” I agree, grabbing the chilled apples from the fridge and bringing them over to the counter. “Ooh, Noah was meticulous with these skewered the apples.”

“What a talented dude.”

I slide the tray onto the counter. “Next, we dip.”

The two of us work together, me calling out instructions and Isaiah following along dutifully. Before long, we have six beautifully coated caramel apples— one w ith nuts, one plain, one with a dash of salt, one with chocolate chips, one with sprinkles, and one with crushed pretzels.

I choose to sample the plain one, while Isaiah goes for the one with pretzels. We bring our apples together and cheers them as if they’re drinks, then bite.

The caramel is still warm, so it’s at once decadent, gooey, and salty- sweet. The Granny Smith apple just beneath offers a tart contrast, making for the perfect bite.

“That’s delicious,” I say between bites. “I’ve never had a caramel apple before!”

“What?!” Isaiah asks. “You gave me so much shit for never going apple-pick ing and now you drop the bomb that you’ve never eaten a caramel apple?”

“I mean, I’ve had caramel and apples together before, but not like this.” I lick my finger. “I don’t even need to taste the other type of apple. This is the clear winner.”

Isaiah nods. “I’m with you. I’ve never really liked the regular candy apples, honestly. But here. Try this.” He holds his apple out to me.

I let out a laugh, not sure if he’s messing with me. “Really?”

“You’ll like it. I promise.”

At his gentle urging, I lean forward to take a small bite, my heart starting to beat faster. Something about leaning in to take a bite while it’s just the two of us in this room feels so . . . I don’t know. Intimate? He watches while I chew, waiting for me to say something.

The salt from the pretzel adds an extra element. “That’s so good,” I murmur, meeting his gaze.

He tilts his head to the side. “Isn’t it?”

The sudden urge to get on my tiptoes and kiss him overcomes me. I shouldn’t find any bit of this romantic— it’s the middle of a Tuesday, we’re in a classroom, and we’re doing what’s essentially free labor for the school.

And yet.

His hands are still near my face, and I can practically feel heat emanating off his body. I watched as he flexed his muscles while stirring the caramel. We’re sharing food.

I could do it. I could close the gap between us. I could pull him close. I could, if not for the bell.

“Shit. We should clean up,” Isaiah says.

I let out a shuddering breath, tethering myself back to reality. “Definitely. Before Noah gets back.”

And before I do something I can’t take back.