Falling Like Leaves (Bramble Falls, #1)(67)

“Used to be. Now he’s the president of Street Media. And, yeah, I guess that’s part of the reason. I grew up at the company, with my dad teaching me everything he knows. And I’m good at it.”

“You’re good at designing clothes, too.”

I glance at him. “Thanks. But it’s just a hobby. Do you know how many aspiring fashion designers there are in New York?”

“A lot, I imagine. But I think you could do it.”

I offer him a smile. But he just doesn’t get it. Even if I could get my dad on board—which would never happen—I have no connections in the saturated world of fashion. It’d be too risky to pin my whole future on hopes of succeeding when I have a guaranteed job in journalism.

“So, I was talking to Aunt Naomi about the parade this morning,” I say, changing the subject. “And it got me thinking… you should make your own float.”

He arches an eyebrow at me. “For what?”

“For your baked goods. You could turn your truck into a promotion for your own cookie business. Sexy Cookies, Inc.” He laughs, and I grin at him. “Okay, maybe not that name, but I’m serious. I don’t think Betty Lynn would mind handling the Caffeinated Cat float if you were doing your own. I could make a cookie costume this week.”

He eyes me, smiling. “You’d have to wear the costume.”

“Uh, no. I’m not signing up to dress in a ridiculous costume in front of the whole town,” I laugh. “But I’ll make it for you.”

“Then who would drive the truck? You don’t have your license.”

“Jake will drive.”

He nods slowly, thinking. “Yeah, okay. Let’s do it.” He’s trying to be nonchalant about it, but I can read this boy like a book. He’s excited.

A half hour later, we turn right again. The sky has grown dark, and I can no longer hear the rides or the crowds of people from the farm.

“You have no idea where we’re going,” Cooper finally says.

“Not a clue.”

“Ellis,” he groans.

I laugh. “I’m sorry. I was lost when you found me! It’s not like I have a map.”

He sighs. “I know you don’t have a map, but you seemed like you had a plan.”

“I did. Wander until I find my way out.”

“Okay, but now what?”

“Keep wandering until we find our way out?” I suggest.

“We could cut through the corn and just walk straight until we find our way out,” he says. “Even if we end up on the wrong side of the farm, we won’t be stuck in here anymore.”

I peer into the dark cornstalks. “Um, no.”

“It’s a better plan than yours.”

“Except yours is terrifying,” I argue.

“Why? There aren’t any bloodthirsty children in there, I promise,” he says with a laugh.

“There might be coyotes, though. Or bobcats.” I sigh. “I don’t have to worry about coyotes or bobcats in the city.”

“No, you just have to worry about rats.”

I shrug. “Meh, rats are just basically stray cats in New York. I’m used to those.”

“Gross,” he says with a shake of his head. “But okay, if you don’t want to cut through the corn, I think maybe we should just sit tight.”

“Like here? On the ground?”

“You can stand if you want. I’m just saying, Sloane knows you’re in here. She probably already has people looking for you. So we should stay in one place so we’re not accidentally walking away from our rescue team,” he says. “They’re bound to find us eventually.”

“Seems more likely we’ll find the end before they find us.”

He frowns at me. “We’ve both been in here for hours.”

“Fine,” I pout.

Cooper and I sit on the dirt path, cold and enveloped in silence, with our legs stretched out in front of us. I try not to think about how close his fingers are to mine as we lean back on our hands. And I try not to stare at the perfect slope of his nose or the curl of his eyelashes, or his full lips as he breathes puffs of warm air.

“Maybe we should keep walking,” I say, desperate for a distraction. “It’s freezing out here.”

He taps my foot with his. “Nope. This is a good plan, even if it’s not your plan.”

I sigh and lie back. If I close my eyes, I can’t stare at him.

The ground is hard and cold, but it doesn’t even matter when he lies back next to me and lifts my arm. I open my eyes and draw my eyebrows together, confused, as he pushes my sleeve up.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He touches a freckle on my arm, then runs his finger along my skin to the one next to it. Then to the next. “Do you remember when you were here that summer and we figured out we had a matching constellation of freckles?”

I grin at the memory. “I didn’t,” I say, reaching over and tracing the pattern of freckles on his arm. “But now I do, yeah. I remember thinking it was freaking weird.”

He turns his head. “I probably should have, but I didn’t. I thought it meant we were, like, meant to be or something. Like I’d somehow met the love of my life in middle school.”