Page 33 of There's Pumpkin About You
My breath hitches when I feel a firm chest against my back. I have to remind myself that I’m still also holding Cliff, otherwise my arms would be turning to lead with the way the small shocks seem to try and deaden each nerve with an overload of pleasure. Gus leans down and the moment I feel his warm breath on my neck, I almost lose control of my legs. He breathes thoughts into my mind that I’ve not had about another man since long before Adam.
“Now, let it fall into your palm,” he whispers, and when my hand doesn’t move straightaway, he gently takes it in his and helps me rearrange the carrot in my hand. “Hand flat.”
My breath is shaky as Mori finishes the last of the carrot. She looks up at me and leans forward, giving me permission to stroke her mane.
“Here.” Gus moves my hand towards the thick line of hair that falls against Mori’s neck. I lay my hand against it and slowly stroke her, to which she snickers happily.
“She likes you,” Gus mumbles, and the way his voice reaches my ear tells me that he’s looking down at me as he talks, not needing to see Mori to know where to show her affection.
Would he be this much of an expert with me as well?
I huff out a pathetic attempt at a laugh. “Good,” I breathe. “I like her, too.”
Mori continues to act as a buffer for several minutes, and to me it starts to feel as if Gus almost uses her as a reason to keep his hand on mine, even after I get the hang of petting her.
Eventually, Cliff wakes up and starts to squirm in my grasp and so I have no choice but to remove my hand so I can set him down on the floor. I stand back up and turn around, only to find that Gus hasn’t moved an inch. His eyes remain trained on my beauty spot, the one thing about me that seems to hold his attention. I swallow hard and his gaze shifts to the motion.
“Do I make you nervous, sweetheart?”
His lips press against each other, as if taking a second to see if he likes the taste the new nickname leaves on his tongue.
My own form a gap when I let out yet another short breath, my lungs desperately searching for any kind of oxygen in the room.
“Do I?” he repeats.
“I…” I gulp. “I’m not sure.”
The edge of his lips twitch, but he keeps his smile in check.
“Good enough for me.”
ChapterFifteen
GUS
My attempts at avoiding Wren have so far been successful. I’ve managed to go an entire week without having to talk to her once. When she comes to drop off my coffee, I make sure to disappear for an hour, coming back to a cold coffee that I drink regardless of temperature. It really does help that she respects the coffee deadline I gave her. I work with Finn on the barn, but only when Wren has left, and as for going into town… well that’s never really been something I do much of anyways, so doing it even less hasn’t been a problem.
The harvesting period has been off to a slower start than I anticipated. Even Finn noticed and offered to help for a few hours when my shoulder was giving trouble. It’s been stiffer than usual on account of me putting more pressure on it than I should. Whilst my forearm is what’s broken, it’s my shoulder that consists of two muscle strains from all my efforts to reach Cliff when he was about to fall. The painkillers that Doctor Shakari prescribed help with the break, but the muscular pain is still there. A warm compress here and a bit of recommended exercises there and it’s just a matter of time before it heals.
Except this doesn’t seem to want to heal.
Might that be down to me not doing the exercises she recommended? Possibly. It’s not something I’ve necessarily had the time to do. Not when I have to check on the silos, harvest as much as I can, work on the barn and avoid a certain brown-haired girl who I’m pretty certain I wanted to kiss last week.
I’m booked solid.
Which is why, when I begin my pathetic attempt at lifting Nigel’s order off of the back of my truck, I’m frozen mid-lift by an annoyingly high-pitched, “August Finch!”, causing me to pause, an ache deep in my shoulder along with my temple.
I close my eyes and pray that this isn’t the person that I think it is.
“August Finch, I know that’s you.”
Fuck.
Large pumpkin on my shoulder, I turn around and come face to face with Sandra, the clerk in the library down the street. She’s a sour woman—always finding something to complain about, always gossiping, and always telling me that I’m doing something fucking wrong.
“Sandra,” I greet.
“Nigel ordered that pumpkin from you a week ago. Why has he had to wait so long?”
