Page 13 of The Pumpkin Spice Proposal
“Okay,” I whispered, leaning toward him. “Rule two. Public-facing relationship. Bare minimum.”
He shot me a dark look. “I’m aware of the terms.”
“Then you’re aware that ‘sitting a foot away from me looking like you’re contemplating murder’ is not part of the bare minimum.”
He let out a quiet, frustrated sigh that smelled faintly of coffee. “Fine.”
Then, in a move that was both stiff and shockingly sudden, he reached over and took my hand.
My brain short-circuited.
His hand was large, warm, and dry. His fingers laced through mine with a practiced ease that was completely at odds with the rigid set of his shoulders. It felt … solid. Substantial. My hand, which was usually holding a pair of floral shears or wiping up some unidentifiable spill, felt small and ridiculously delicate enclosed in his.
I stared at our joined hands, resting on the rough wooden bench between us. It was a prop. A strategic tool to sell a story. But my pulse didn’t seem to get the memo. It started that frantic, kettle-corn hopping again.
I forced myself to look up, to smile at him like this was the most natural thing in the world. He was still staring straight ahead, but I could see a muscle twitching in his jaw. Oh, he hated this. The thought gave me a small, petty spike of satisfaction.
“There,” I whispered. “See? Not so bad.”
“Debatable,” he muttered under his breath.
Across the wagon, my mother caught my eye and gave me a thumbs-up so enthusiastic it nearly dislocated her shoulder. I gave her a wobbly smile back. Olivia, content that the “rules” were being followed, was now happily pointing out squirrels in the trees.
For the next ten minutes, we sat like that, a portrait of manufactured romance. We were a silent, stiff island in a sea of happy, chattering people. I pointed at a particularly well-carved pumpkin that looked like the mayor, and Mario made a noncommittal noise. He shifted his weight, and our shoulders brushed. A tiny spark of warmth shot down my arm, a pleasant, traitorous little zap. I told myself it was just static from my orange wool sweater.
The tractor rumbled deeper into the woods, the path growing darker and more remote. The lights of the festival were just a faint glow behind us. And then,e poi... it happened.The steady, throaty rumble of the tractor’s engine sputtered. Once. Twice. It coughed, a sick, wheezing sound, and then died completely.
We rolled to a stop in a patch of profound darkness, the path ahead unlit.
A collective groan went through the wagon. Someone’s kid started to cry. The driver, a teenager who looked about seventeen, hopped down and opened the engine compartment, a look of sheer panic on his face.
“Uh, just a little engine trouble, folks,” he called out, his voice cracking. “Should have us up and running in a jiffy!”
He did not sound like he would have us up and running in a jiffy.
The festive atmosphere on the wagon evaporated, replaced by a restless, annoyed buzz. People started pulling out their phones, the sudden glare of the screens blinding in the dark. My family was murmuring amongst themselves.
“Well,” Ben said loudly from across the wagon. “Looks like you two got some extra romantic alone time!”
I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me whole. The hay, the tractor, all of it.
Then things escalated. In the sudden shuffling and commotion, someone near the front of the wagon bumped into a teetering stack of decorative hay bales that had been piled in the center. They weren’t heavy, but they were bulky. The top bale wobbled, swayed, and then tipped over directly toward our bench.
It happened in a flash. There was a collective gasp. I instinctively pulled Olivia closer, turning to shield her. But before the bale could hit us, an arm shot out in front of me. Mario.
He didn’t even seem to think about it. He just reacted. His body twisted, his arm catching the falling bale with a softwhump. He grunted with the effort, easily shoving the bale back into the pile. But the initial momentum threw him off balance. He stumbled sideways, directly into me.
The impact sent a cascade of smaller hay bales tumbling around us, boxing us into our corner. The world became a claustrophobic, scratchy, and surprisingly fragrant little cave. We were wedged together on the bench, his side pressed firmly against mine from shoulder to thigh. He was still half-covering me, his arm a protective barrier. Olivia was squished safely between me and the side of the wagon, completely unfazed and now trying to catch pieces of floating hay.
“You okay?” His voice was a low growl in my ear, his breath warm against my cheek.
“Fine,” I squeaked. I was not fine. I was hyper-aware of everything. Of the solid muscle of his arm against my back. Of the strength radiating from him in palpable waves. Of the fact that he was so close I could count the individual threads in his dark hoodie. Our fake hand-holding had been awkward. This was something else entirely. This felt real.
The wagon was descending into low-grade chaos. The crying kid was now wailing. People were complaining. The teenage driver was on his phone, presumably calling for a rescue that was miles away.
But in our little hay-fortified corner, it was strangely quiet. The commotion from the rest of the wagon seemed distant, muffled.
Mario hadn’t moved. He was still pressed against me, a solid wall of warmth in the chilly night air. He slowly lowered the arm that had blocked the hay bale, but he didn’t pull away. The darkness hid us from the prying eyes of my family, from June, from everyone. The performance was over. There was no one to fool. It was just us.
