Page 13 of Fall Surprises
Cullen's Pumpkin Patch sprawled across rolling fields, pumpkins of every size and color dotting the landscape like scattered jewels. Families wandered between the rows, children shrieking with excitement. A massive red barn served as the main building, with a sign advertising hayrides, corn maze,and hot cider. Cornstalks tied with orange ribbon framed the entrance, and scarecrows with friendly faces stood guard.
"This is amazing," Sam breathed, taking in the scene.
"Wait until you see the pumpkins." I opened her door before she could reach for the handle. "Cullen grows some monsters. I heard last year he had one that weighed over eight hundred pounds."
"What do you even do with an eight-hundred-pound pumpkin?"
"Right? That would be a lot of pies," I chuckled.
We paid our admission and joined the line for the hayride out to the patch. The air smelled different out here than at the orchard—earthier, with notes of dried grass and that particular autumn scent of frost-kissed dirt. The kind of smells that made you understand why people loved this season.
The tractor pulling the wagon was decorated with red and orange garlands, and the wagon bed was filled with hay bales arranged as seats. As more people climbed aboard, we ended up sharing a bale near the back.
"Cozy," Sam said, her voice slightly breathless as her thigh pressed to mine.
"Yeah." I kept my eyes forward, trying to ignore how perfectly she fit against my side.
The wagon lurched forward, and she grabbed my arm to steady herself, fingers wrapping around my bicep. Even through my jacket and shirt, I felt the touch burn through fabric.
Every bump in the field jostled us closer together. The sun found the highlights in her hair—amber shades I hadn't noticed before. When she tilted her head back to laugh at something a kid said behind us, I had to physically stop myself from tucking a strand behind her ear.
She was just the right height to tuck under my arm, her head reaching just past my shoulder. If I pulled her closer, she'd fit right against my chest. The thought hit hard and wouldn't let go.
Stop it, I told myself. She's leaving in a week. She's a client. She's wrapped in cashmere and control issues.
But when she leaned into me slightly as the wagon hit a particularly rough patch, smiling up at me with genuine happiness in her expression, I couldn't remember why any of those reasons mattered.
The wagon pulled to a stop at the edge of the pumpkin field, and we climbed down. Sam immediately spotted something behind me, her face lighting up with mischief I hadn't seen before.
"What—" I started to ask, but she grabbed my hand and pulled me toward a massive pile of raked leaves.
"Come on!" she called over her shoulder, and before I could process what was happening, she jumped, dragging me with her.
We landed hard, the pile deeper than it looked. I'd managed to twist mid-fall, but Sam still ended up half sprawled across me, warm and solid against my chest. Leaves stuck to her hair, her sweater, showered down around us. Her laughter rang out, and I laughed too—actual laughter, not the polite chuckle I'd been giving everyone since San Francisco.
"I can't believe you just did that," I said when I could breathe again.
She'd propped herself up on one elbow, grinning down at me with leaves stuck everywhere. "Neither can I. I don't know what's wrong with me."
I reached up to pluck a maple leaf free, and her smile softened. Our eyes met, and the laughter died. She was close enough that I could count the freckles scattered across her nose, see the flecks of gold in her eyes.
"Sorry!" A kid's voice broke the spell as someone jumped into the pile near us, sending up another shower of leaves.
We scrambled apart, both of us breathing hard. Her face was red, and she brushed leaves from her sweater, not quite meeting my gaze.
"That was fun," she said, her voice slightly breathless.
"Yeah." I stood and offered her my hand. She took it, and I pulled her to her feet, letting go as soon as she was steady. "Didn't expect you to have that in you."
"Neither did I, honestly." She picked more leaves from her hair, her smile hesitant. "Guess I needed it more than I realized."
As we walked toward the field, I studied her from the corner of my eye. Rory and Cass had been right—she'd needed to remember there was more to life than work. Seeing her like this, relaxed and genuinely happy, made me wonder how much of herself she'd buried. The divorce explained the control issues, the obsession with creating perfect moments. But what else had shaped her? What had made her forget simple, unchoreographed joys like jumping into leaf piles?
"So how do you pick the perfect pumpkin?" she asked, pulling me from my thoughts.
"Depends on what you want it for." I crouched beside one of the large gourds, running my hand over its surface. "For carving, you want a firm stem—that's the handle. Smooth, unblemished skin. Flat bottom so it sits steady. For cooking, different story—smaller, sweeter varieties."
"And for decoration?"
