Page 15 of Fall Surprises
"Traitor," I told the dog. "You've known me for two months."
"He has excellent taste." She glanced down at Bramble, then back at me with a smile that made my chest tight.
"Apparently so does everyone in this inn."
"Was that almost a compliment?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
We worked in comfortable silence, the kind that didn't need filling. I'd carved hundreds of pumpkins over the years—my grandmother taught me when I was a kid. Dad was always working late at the plant, so Grandma handled most of the holiday stuff. She made everything feel special, even just carving pumpkins at the kitchen table.
I scraped out pumpkin guts and tossed them toward the compost bucket. A seed flew wide, hitting Sam square on the cheek.
She gasped, eyes going wide with mock outrage. Then her hand dove into her pumpkin and came up with a fistful of seeds and stringy pulp.
"Oh no you don't—" I started, but she'd already flicked them at me.
"Maybe," she said, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"You're going to regret that."
What followed was the most juvenile thing I'd done in years. We were both laughing, dodging and retaliating, seeds flying everywhere. Bramble barked excitedly, trying to eat everything that hit the floor.
"Truce!" Sam finally gasped, breathless. "Truce before Rory bans us both from the kitchen."
"Probably wise." I surveyed the mess. "Though we're definitely cleaning this up."
"Deal."
We grabbed paper towels and worked together to clean up the scattered seeds and sticky pulp. Sam kept finding seeds in unexpected places—wedged behind the compost bucket, stuck to the side of the counter—and would hold them up triumphantly before tossing them in the trash.
"Found another one," she announced, plucking a seed from Bramble's fur. The dog wagged his tail, completely unbothered.
Once we'd restored some semblance of order, we returned to carving. Sam worked on her intricate leaf pattern while I finished my classic grinning face. We kept getting in each other's way—elbows bumping, reaching for the same tool, and my pulse kicked up every damn time.
"That's really impressive," I said when she'd nearly finished. The design was surprisingly skilled—delicate curves and detailed veining on each leaf.
"Thanks. I used to love this as a kid." She set down her knife, tilting her head to examine her work. "Before everything became about being perfect."
"Maybe you just need practice at being imperfect." I gestured to her pumpkin. "Like that leaf—it's a little lopsided. Makes it better, actually. More real."
"Are you trying to give me life advice through pumpkin carving?"
"Is it working?"
"Maybe." She paused, pulling the hair tie from her wrist to secure her ponytail more firmly. "Speaking of habits, I should probably check in on tomorrow's schedule. The wedding party arrives in the afternoon, and I need to confirm a few vendor deliveries."
Right. Tomorrow. Reality returning.
"Makes sense. You hungry? I can throw together some dinner."
She hesitated, and I watched the internal debate play across her face. The Sam from this morning would have immediately retreated to her room. But the woman who'd just spent the afternoon jumping into leaf piles seemed torn.
"I should probably eat in my room," she said finally, not quite meeting my gaze. "I have a lot to review, and if I sit down to a meal with you, I'll get distracted."
The admission hung between us—acknowledgment that whatever was building here was distracting us both.
"Right. Focused." I wiped my hands on a towel. "What are you in the mood for?"
