Page 1 of Pumpkins for Parker
Chapter One
Vesper
Maple Ridge is way prettier than I expected. It’s also way harder to navigate thanks to how remote this small town is. My GPS keeps flashing a searching for signal message like it’s mocking me, and I haven’t seen another car in ten minutes. I slow down and squint at the directions the B&B owner texted me while doing my best not to panic. What if my car breaks down before I reach The Maple Lodge B&B? And what if I can’t reach anyone, leaving me stranded in the middle of nowhere?
I toss the paper onto my rental car’s passenger seat and glance at the forest to my right. What even lives in there? Coyotes? Bears? Some local murder creature with glowing eyes and a taste for stressed-out photographers?
Don’t panic, Vesper. I take a deep breath in and drag my focus back to the road ahead of me. I’m definitely not where I’m supposed to be, but I do spot an old wooden sign in the distance. When I approach it, I slow the car and read the text:
Jackson’s Orchard—Serving Maple Ridge since the 1800s.
Pumpkin Patch, Hayrides, Cider Tent, and more.
This way!
I follow the direction of the arrow just as a breeze moves through the trees, scattering red and gold leaves across the gravel shoulder. I swear the light shifts at the perfect angle, and I can’t help myself. I pull over right away. The trees look like they’re glowing. I didn’t come all the way from Charleston to miss a shot like this. Quickly grabbing my camera, I slide the strap over my head before getting out of the car.
No one is around, and a little farther down the road, away from the main buildings, I spot a gate. I walk over and try the latch. It clicks open without resistance.
I glance over my shoulder. Still no one here. Maybe I shouldn’t be heading onto private property without asking. It feels like I’m trespassing. But I’m not hurting anything. I’m not stealing apples or stomping through the pumpkin fields. I just need one or two quick shots before the light shifts. Then I’ll be gone. Besides, I could use a win right now. That’s why I’m here in Maple Ridge in the first place.
My best friend—excuse me, former best friend—and the guy I thought I was marrying next year stole my career right out from under me. She took my photos, passed them off as her own, landed a publishing deal, and ran off with my fiancé like it was some kind of twisted bonus round to make sure I was truly and utterly heartbroken.
Sure, I could fight them. If I had a lawyer. Or money. Or energy. But I don’t have any of those things. Instead, I have this. One last shot, literally, to get my foot back in the door. This shoot isn’t just for my portfolio. It’s a freelance piece for American Lens, a seasonal foliage feature. Nothing fancy, just a couple of pages in the back of the upcoming issue. But if it works out, they’ll offer me more regular work. Which means I’ll have enough money to keep my lights on through winter and stock my fridge.
God,I sound whiny, but I don’t care. If getting your entire life hijacked by your best friend-slash-thief of a fiancé doesn’t earn you a little wallowing, what does?
I tighten the grip on my camera and take a few steps forward, letting the gate swing shut behind me. I walk around for a bit, and then I see them. My heart skips a beat.
Big, gorgeous pumpkins are scattered in neat, uneven rows. Some are perfectly round, others charmingly lopsided. And the light? Absolute magic. Warm and golden, slanting through the trees like it was custom-ordered by someone like me, a photographer with something to prove.
Jackpot!
I raise my camera and start to shoot. After a few snaps, I crouch down to get a lower angle, lining up a patch of pumpkins with a backdrop of fire-toned maples.
I lift the camera, finger hovering over the shutter, when a pair of boots steps into my frame, ruining the shot.
Before I can look up, a booming voice rolls out above me. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
I freeze at the words. Every instinct tells me to get up and apologize, but my limbs refuse to move. The voice alone has knocked the air out of my lungs. It’s deep. Rough. Unapologetically sexy.
Swallowing, I finally rise to my feet. I lift my eyes, and then I see who the voice belongs to.
The man in front of me is tall, with broad shoulders under a worn flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms like he’s been working all day. And I mean actually working, not posing for fall-themed stock photos, even though he’d be the perfect model for those. His jaw is square and shadowed with stubble, and his eyes… I swallow. His eyes pin me in place.
What is he going to do? He looks like he could carry me over his shoulder without breaking a sweat or saying a word. Is hegoing to? Pick me up and haul me back to my car, with a warning to stay off his land? At least, I assume it’s his land, but what do I know?
He’s still staring at me without saying another word. Am I supposed to speak?
In my panicked state, I stick out my hand like a complete idiot and give him a big smile. “I’m Vesper. Photographer for American Lens. Nice to meet you, sir.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and I swear I catch the flicker of a smile.
“Sir?” he repeats in that rough voice of his that’s doing dangerous things to my insides.
“Um, do you prefer mister?” I stammer.
Fuck, I could sink through this pumpkin field from embarrassment.
