Page 23 of The Pumpkin Spice Romance
Graham locked onto her, his steady expression unwavering, the intensity impossible to ignore.
“You’re right,” he admitted. “But at eighteen, I wasn’t exactly great at compromise. I thought the only way to succeed was to cut ties.”
“And did you succeed?” she asked, tilting her head.
He smiled. “Depends on how you measure it. Career-wise, sure. Personally . . . I’m still figuring that out.”
Autumn frowned, the words tugging at feelings deep within her. “It wasn’t easy,” she whispered. Selected a dozen of the smallest pumpkins, she carefully placed them in her basket. “Taking over the farm after Grandmother passed. I was lost. Half the town thought I’d sell it off within the first year.”
“But you didn’t. You made it work.”
She met his eyes, surprised by the conviction in them. “Barely. But yeah, I did.”
“Your grandmother would be proud.” He reached for a small pumpkin, turned it over in his hands, then set it back on the table. “I remember how much she loved this town—and how much she believed in you.”
Her throat tightened, and she busied herself with stacking a bundle of corn stalks on top of her pile of miniature pumpkins. “She wasn’t alive to see it, though,” she murmured. “The farm is doing well, I mean. I’d like to think she’d approve.”
“She would,” he said, with a certainty that made her take notice.
The bustling market seemed to fade into the background. The sounds of laughter and bartering dulled. Autumn felt the edges of her resolve melting, old wounds reopening amid the kaleidoscope of Hayden’s autumn charm.
* * *
At the edge of the field, Autumn peered around. Strings of twinkle lights sparkled overhead, casting a glow over hay bales, pumpkin displays, and booths lined with rustic décor. Volunteers bustled around her, their chatter mingling with the faint strains of a fiddler tuning up on the main stage.
Adjusting the clipboard in her hands, Autumn scanned the checklist for anything left undone. “Corn husk garlands, scarecrow displays, lamppost ribbons . . .” she said, flipping to the next page. A gust of wind rustled at the papers.
“Need a hand?”
The familiar voice startled her. She turned to see Graham standing a few feet away, a stack of wooden crates balanced in his arms. He’d swapped his usual button-down for a plain flannel shirt and almost belonged there—almost.
“I thought you were done with community service,” she teased, gesturing for him to set the crates near the main stage.
“Turns out I enjoy being useful.” Graham grinned, carefully lowering the crates to the ground. “What’s next?”
She glanced at the clipboard, then back at him, unsure what to make of the easy camaraderie he seemed to slip into so naturally. “If you’re volunteering, you just signed up for scarecrow duty.”
“Sounds manageable. Lead the way.”
They worked side by side for the next hour, arranging scarecrows, stacking pumpkins, and tying bundles of corn husks to the lampposts. Despite the cool evening air, Autumn felt heat blooming in her soul—a surprising sense of ease she hadn’t expected to find with Graham.
At one point, he steadied a ladder while she climbed up to secure a garland above one of the food stalls. “You always enjoyed being the boss.” He craned his neck to look up at her.
“Somebody has to be,” she shot back, looping the garland into place. “Unless you’d prefer chaos?”
“Not at all. You make it look easy.”
Autumn climbed down, swiping stray hay off her overalls. “It’s not.”
“I know.”
A sudden gust of wind swept through the square, carrying with it the first smattering of raindrops.
“Oh no,” Autumn groaned, peering up at the darkening sky. The clouds had gathered quickly, heavy and gray, spilling their contents in a steady drizzle.
“Looks like we’re calling it a night,” Graham said, grabbing her arm as volunteers scattered to cover displays and booths.
“Not yet!” Autumn cried, rushing to drape a tarp over a pyramid of pumpkins. Her hands fumbled with the edges, slipping on the slick canvas.
