Page 30 of Harvest Brew With the Mountain Man
“Will do,” I smile widely. “You take care now.” I steer West away.
“Take care, West,” she calls out.
West. Not both of us.
He waves over his shoulder, chuckling.
“Don’t you laugh,” I lightly punch his ribs.
“Whoa. Careful. Apparently, I’m having tummy issues today.”
“Shut up,” I grumble with no heat.
“Only you, Nyx,” he whispers in my ear. “I want no one else, see no one else.”
As we approach Jenkins, West drops his arm. The squeeze around my heart releases at his words. Okay. I feel a bit dumb for what I just pulled. Thankfully, Jenkins’ jovial nature erases it from my mind.
“Is that little Camille Lane?” he asks, smiling that big grandfather smile that warms your heart.
I softly laugh, “Not so little anymore, sir.”
“No, indeed, the years have passed us all too quickly. West?” he shakes West’s hand.
“How are the pumpkins this year?” West asks, smiling charismatically while surveying the pumpkins displayed on the table and behind his table.
“Wait till you see, Big Betty. She’s a beaut.”
“What is she measuring?” West asks.
“No can do, my boy. Gotta wait till the Festival like everyone else.”
“Fair,” West chuckles. “Well, apparently, everyone here knows of this talented woman’s carving skills.”
“You’d be a fool for not paying attention,” Jenkins’ eyes twinkle mischievously. “Since she was a teenager, she had natural control of her wrists. Creative, too.”
“You flatter me, sir,” I blush.
“I only speak the truth. Now, if only we could get that brother of yours to use his time more productively.”
“Well, I’m back home now, so I’ll keep an eye on that knucklehead.”
We both laugh as Jenkins nods. “Welcome home. Now, come. The good ones haven’t been taken yet.” As we follow him to the patch he has fenced off behind his table, he leans in. “And a few unique contenders for you to wield magic.”
I bump my shoulder into his arm. “Thanks,” I smile, grateful to be back home.
Jenkins, growing up, always encouraged my unique take on things. While my mother attempted to mold me into her conventional doll, I looked forward to autumn every year. Jenkins would teach me to carve and talk about his secrets to nurturing a growing pumpkin, the preparations months ahead for this season, and proper ways to dispose of them, giving them purpose, back into the earth.
We wade through pumpkins, and West sets the ones I choose into the wagon Jenkins provided.
“Mama, pumpkins!” The sweetest voice enthusiastically squeals from across the patch.
“Look how big they are, baby,” the woman next to Asher Hunter points as she kneels down next to her son.
“West,” Beckett calls out, his arm around Grace Delaney, well, actually, Hunter now.
“Hey,” West waves them over. “Is that my favorite little man?”
“Hulk Smash,” the little boy with an adorable mop of curls on his head, deepens his voice and dramatically flexes his baby muscles. Too freaking cute.
