Page 19 of The Pumpkin Spice Romance
“Autumn, you don’t have to—”
“I insist.” She didn’t look at him as she moved to grab another bale. “It’s the least I can do.”
For a moment, Graham said nothing. Autumn could feel his eyes on her, like the warmth of an evening fire. A beat later, he spoke, his voice quieter now. “You’ve done a lot with this place.”
Her hands stilled on the twine of the third hay bale. The unexpected compliment sent a ripple through her, but she pushed it aside. “It’s nothing special,” she said, straightening. “Just keeping things afloat. I know it’s not fancy.”
“It’s more than that,” Graham replied, stepping closer. His glance swept over the rows of healthy pumpkins in the ground, the neatly stacked hay bales, the colorful beds of thriving mums lining the barn’s entrance. “Grandmother Piper would’ve been proud.”
Autumn’s breath hitched when Graham uttered the word: grandmother. She fumbled for a knot on the final bale that was already tied. She blinked rapidly. “Thanks.”
“I mean it,” Graham continued, his tone earnest. “She always talked about how much she loved this place. How much she believed in you.”
Autumn’s hands clenched around the handle of the cart. She didn’t want to talk about her grandmother—not now, not with him. The memories—too raw, too tangled with everything she’d lost—hurt too much. “It’s just a farm.” She pulled the cart toward the barn door. “That’s all it’s ever been.”
He didn’t follow her immediately. When she glanced back, he hadn’t moved and his expression was unreadable. For a split second, it was as if time had rewound, and they were teenagers again. His silences had spoken volumes back then. They were no different a decade later.
“I should’ve reached out.” His voice was thick with regret. “After your grandmother passed. I wanted to, but . . .”
“But you didn’t,” Autumn replied, sharper than she intended. She stopped at the barn door
*. “It’s fine. That was a long time ago.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t regret it. Nor does that make it right.”
Autumn peered at the barn, but the words clung to her like the chill in the air, curling around her ribcage. She didn’t want to reminisce about what might have been, about the boy who’d left her behind for a world where she didn’t belong. It was easier to keep the memories of Graham—of what they once had—locked away, safely out of reach.
“You should go,” she said, abruptly. “I’ll have the hay delivered this afternoon.”
Graham hesitated, his eyes searching hers for what she refused to offer. Finally, he nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”
The clatter of metal interrupted his departure. Both of their heads snapped toward the noise inside. Autumn’s stomach dropped when she spotted the source of the chaos. Mr. Buttercup, apparently bored with his fabric trophy, had discovered the carefully arranged display of vintage watering cans.
“No, no, no!” Autumn cried.
Graham’s longer strides kept him close behind her. “What’s he doing now?” he asked, though the answer quickly became obvious.
Perched atop a hay bale, Mr. Buttercup’s defiance was even more theatrical with the slant of his eyes and tilt of his head.
“Mr. Buttercup!” She raised her hands and pointed at the buck. “Get . . . down . . . from . . . there!”
One ear flicked in her direction, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed he might actually listen. Then, with a gleam of pure mischief in his eyes, he headbutted the pyramid of watering cans with all the enthusiasm of a child demolishing a sandcastle. The entire stack collapsed in a cacophony of clanging metal, scattering across the barn floor like fallen dominoes.
Autumn pressed her palms to her temples, her patience hanging by a thread. “That goat is going to send me straight to an early grave.”
Graham bent down and picked up a can. It had a large dent near the rim, and he turned it over in his hands with a thoughtful expression. “You have to hand it to him,” he said, his lips curving into a lopsided grin. “He’s nothing if not committed.”
“This isn’t funny,” Autumn snapped, though a reluctant smile tugged at her mouth. Dropping to her knees, she began gathering the cans with short, frustrated movements. “Those took me hours to arrange.”
“Hours?” Graham’s brows lifted in mock surprise. “Why would you spend hours stacking watering cans?”
“Pinterest,” she muttered, not meeting his gaze. “Everything has to look perfect for social media now. Rustic charm is apparently the only way to sell pumpkins these days.”
Graham chuckled, crouching beside her. He moved with ease, the tailored lines of his suit out of place against the scattered mess of dented metal and hay. “Well, it looks nice. Or it did before your goat decided to stage a protest.”
Autumn rolled her eyes, though her irritation had already ebbed.
Their knuckles skimmed as they reached for the same can. Autumn felt an involuntary jolt of energy race up her arm.She withdrew quickly, her cheeks flushing. “I’ve got it,” she snapped.
