Page 12 of Pumpkin Patch Pack
The thoughtfulness catches me off guard. “Oh. Thank you.”
Our fingers brush as I take the sandwich, and I feel a jolt like static electricity. His hand twitches, hovering over mine, and for a heartbeat, his fingertips return to the spot where our skin connected, gently smoothing over my knuckles with a light touch.
“Sorry,” he whispers, as he finally withdraws his hand.
I clutch the sandwich, suddenly forgetting why I wanted it in the first place. My skin tingles where he touched me, and I struggle to remember how to form words.
Definitely not a normal beta reaction to casual touch.
My body can’t decide if it wants to purr or run.
“The goat giving you any trouble?” he asks, his voice rougher than before.
“No, she’s been perfect. A great model, actually.” I carefully show him my phone screen, where I’ve captured Maple posing majestically atop a hay bale.
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—the first real smile I’ve seen from him. It transforms his face completely, making him look devastatingly handsome.
“She is photogenic,” he agrees. “Knows her angles.”
The moment stretches between us, unexpectedly comfortable, until Maple butts her head against Liam’s leg, demanding attention. He reaches down automatically to scratch behind her ears.
“I should get her back,” he says. “And you should eat.”
I nod, oddly reluctant to end the interaction. “Thanks for the sandwich.”
He gives me a final nod, then clicks his tongue at Maple, who follows him obediently as he walks away. I watch them go—the tall, flannel-clad man and the small white goat—and feel something tug in my chest.
Even the goat has someone to follow home. When did I become someone who envies a farm animal’s sense of belonging?
Back in the sunroom, I eat the sandwich—turkey and avocado on homemade bread—and try not to moan; it’s freaking delicious. I sort through the photos I’ve taken, and many of them are better than I expected, capturing the idyllic farm setting in an authentic and aspirational way.
I’m so absorbed in editing the best shots for Instagram that I don’t notice Rowan until he clears his throat from the doorway.
I jump.
“Sorry—didn’t mean to startle you. Making progress?” he asks, nodding toward my laptop.
“Yes,” I say, turning the screen so he can see. “I’ve drafted a content calendar and taken photos for immediate use. If you approve, I’d like to start posting today to build momentum before your opening weekend.”
He moves closer to look at the screen, and I catch his scent—that burnt sugar I noticed yesterday. It’s not as strong because of my double patch, but it’s enticing. I find myself inhaling deeper before I can catch myself.
What the fuck are you doing, Emma?
Focus on literally anything else!
That weird stain on my cottage ceiling.
Colonoscopies.
Root canals.
“These are good,” he says as he scrolls through the photos. “You’ve got an eye for composition.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, ignoring the warmth spreading through me—focusing on breathing through my mouth.
Colonoscopies.
Root canals.
