Page 8 of The Pumpkin Spice Proposal
My boot heel hit the pumpkin. The world tilted.
There was a moment of pure, weightless panic. My clipboard flew from my hand, scattering invoices across the lawn. My arms flailed, grasping at empty air. I let out a squeak that was entirely undignified. I braced myself for the impact, for a mouthful of dirt and straw and the complete annihilation of my pride.
It never came.
Instead of hitting the ground, I hit something else. Something solid, and warm, and shockingly strong. Two hands clamped around my waist, stopping my fall with an abruptness that knocked the breath from my lungs. I was pressed flush against a hard chest, my cheek squashed against the soft fabric of a navy Henley.
I was tangled up in the Italian hotness that was Mario Marrone.
For a long, silent second, everything stopped. The hammering, the shouting, the distant music from someone’s radio—it all faded into a low hum. My world had shrunk to the circle of his arms. My pulse, which had been humming along at a steady, professional rhythm, suddenly started hopping like kettle corn in a hot pan. The scent of him filled my senses, that clean, soap-and-metal smell, now mixed with the sweet, loamy perfume of the pumpkin patch.
He smelled like trouble. He smelled like everything I was determined to prove I didn’t need.
Slowly, carefully, I tilted my head back to look at him. His face was inches from mine. His expression wasn’t smug or amused, as I’d expected. It was… intense. His dark eyes, which I’d previously cataloged as merely grumpy, were focused on my face with a startling concentration. I could see the tiny flecks of amber in the brown, the thick line of his lashes. His jaw was tight. His hands were still locked around my waist, his grip firm and sure. I could feel the heat of his palms through my thin t-shirt.
I forgot how to breathe. I forgot about the pyramid, the invoices, the meddling family, and the swan-shaped gourds. My brain, usually a whirlwind of checklists and to-do lists, went completely, blissfully blank. There was only the solid feel of him holding me up, the startling intensity in his eyes, and the sudden, insane urge to find out if his mouth was as firm as it looked.
He blinked once. His grip on my waist loosened slightly, but he didn’t let go. His thumbs brushed against my sides in a small, almost imperceptible movement that sent a fresh jolt of warmth spreading through me like cider in October.
“You okay, Flower Girl?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration that I felt more than heard.
Flower Girl? The ridiculous nickname should have annoyed me. It should have made me pull away and snap at him. Instead, it sent another ridiculous, fizzy wave of heat straight to my cheeks.
I opened my mouth to say something—anything.I’m fine. Thank you. Get your hands off me.But all that came out was a pathetic little squeak.
The spell was shattered by a third voice, high and clear and brutally honest.
“Are you two in love now?”
Olivia.
She was standing a few feet away, holding her glitter-encrusted pumpkin, her head cocked to the side. Her expression was one of genuine, academic curiosity, as if she were observing a fascinating new species of insect.
The question hung in the air, a bright, sparkly grenade.
Mario and I sprang apart as if we’d been electrocuted. He set me on my feet, dropped his hands from my waist, and I stumbled back a step, a sudden chill replacing the warmth where he’d been holding me. My face went from hot to thermonuclear.
Mario shoved his hands in his jeans pockets, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere over my left shoulder. A dull red flush crept up from the collar of his shirt. For the first time all day, Mr. Cool, Calm, and Competent looked as flustered as I felt.
“No, sweetie,” I managed, my voice strained. “We are not in love. I just … tripped.”
“He caught you. In the air,” Olivia pointed out, as if we might have missed that crucial detail. “Like in a movie.”
Oh, God. It got worse.
I was desperately trying to come up with a way to redirect the conversation—Look, a bird!—when a new voice joined the party, this one sickeningly sweet and dripping with insinuation.
“Oh, what a picture!”
My heart sank into my boots. I didn’t have to look. I knew that voice.
June.
My nosy neighbor June, who lived three houses down from me, volunteered for every committee in town, and possessed a supernatural ability to appear at the precise moment of maximum mortification. She was standing by the half-finished hay bale maze, her phone held up in front of her face, a shark-like grin spreading across her features. The setting sun glinted off the screen.
“You two are just the cutest,” she cooed, lowering her phone. The tell-taleclickof a photo being taken echoed in the suddenly quiet air.
“The whole town has been wondering when Ben’s mysterious friend would finally pop up. And here you are, sweeping our Lily off her feet! Literally!”
