Page 30 of Pumpkin Patch Pack
“You’re fine. You’ll get new pills today.”
The farm isn’t open to the public on weekdays right now, giving the staff time to restock and prepare for the next wave of visitors. This means a quieter day but more direct interaction with the permanent farm residents, A.K.A., the three men I’m starting to crave and fear being around, even if today is technically my day off.
When I reach the main house, I find Theo in the kitchen, flour dusting his hands.
“Just in time!” he chirps when he sees me. “I need a taste-tester.”
Before I can respond, he’s guiding me to a stool at the island counter and placing a small plate in front of me. On it sits what appears to be a miniature apple pie, golden-brown and still steaming.
“New recipe,” he explains, handing me a fork. “Apple cranberry hand pies. Thought we could sell them at the farm stand. People go crazy for anything handheld they can eat while walking around.”
The pie does look delicious, and as I take a small bite, the flavors burst on my tongue: tart cranberry, sweet apple, and buttery crust.
“This is amazing. You made these from scratch?”
Theo beams. “This is a Family recipe, with some tweaks. The secret is in the crust; you must keep everything cold.” He gestures to the flour-covered counter where more dough awaits shaping. “Want to learn? I could use an extra pair of hands.”
There’s something about Theo that makes me feel at ease; maybe it’s his beta status or the fact that he’s always joyous, like I want to soak up as much of his good vibes as I possibly can. “Sure. I’m not much of a baker, though.”
“Anyone can bake,” he says confidently, handing me an apron with ‘Betas do it Betta’written across the front. “It’s just following directions with occasional creative flourishes.”
For the next hour, Theo teaches me to roll out dough (“Don’t overwork it; that’s what makes it tough”), fill the small circles with apple-cranberry mixture (“A little heaping is good, but don’t get greedy”), and crimp the edges with a fork (“Firm pressure, but don’t puncture through”). His instructions are clear and patient, and his praise makes my heart flutter when I get something right.
It’s fun.
As we work, Theo keeps up a stream of light conversation: stories about the farm, childhood memories of baking with his mother, and plans for future seasonal treats.
“You’re overworking it.” His hands cover mine, guiding my movements with the rolling pin. The warmth of his palms seeps through my skin.
“Feel that?” His voice drops low, close to my ear. “Gentle pressure, smooth strokes.”
My breath catches. The warmth of his body behind me, the cinnamon scent wrapping around me like a warm hug, makes my head spin. I lean back, seeking more heat.
Then I freeze. Shitballs.
Theo steps away, leaving cold air where his warmth had been.
“You’ve got it now,” he says, his voice rougher than before.
Silence hangs between us as he slides a batch of pies into the oven.
“So,” he says, casually, “how are you settling in? Really?”
“Fine,” I say automatically. “Everyone’s been very welcoming.”
Now that the baking is done, standing this close to Theo with nothing to keep my hands busy is… distracting.
He gives me a look that says he’s not buying it.
“Come on, Emma. It’s been over two weeks. You still eat dinner alone. You flinch when anyone comes near you. And you’ve only been to town once.” His tone is gentle, not accusing.“I’m not trying to pry, but… we care. We want you to be happy here.”
I look down at my hands, fiddling with the strings on my apron.
“I’m just… not great with new places. New people.”
“Bad experience?” he asks softly.
I nod, still not looking up. “You could say that.”
