Page 4 of Pumpkins for Parker
She reaches for a small pumpkin, her fingers brushing against mine as I guide her hand to check the stem. The simple touch sends heat racing up my arm, and I have to remind myself we’re in the middle of a pumpkin patch where people can see us. More importantly, I don’t even know this girl.
“This one good?” she asks.
“Perfect,” I reply, though I’m not talking about the pumpkin anymore.
We work in silence for a while, and our bins get fuller by the minute. After a while, Vesper gets the hang of things and starts telling me about some of the places she’s photographed. A lighthouse in Maine, a jazz festival in New Orleans, a rodeo in Texas… This girl has been everywhere. Her eyes light up when she talks about photography, and I find myself asking follow-up questions so I can keep hearing her voice.
“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever had to photograph?” I ask as we move to our third row of pumpkins.
“A wedding where the bride insisted on incorporating her pet python,” she says without missing a beat. “The groom nearly fainted during the vows when the python suddenly showed its fangs.”
I laugh. “Please tell me you got that shot.”
“Oh, I got it. Made the cover of Bridal Bizarre magazine. Not my proudest professional moment, but it paid well.”
By the time we’ve filled our bins, the sun is higher and the orchard’s coming to life. Cars are pulling into the parking lot, kids are laughing, and I can hear the distant rumble of the hay wagon starting up.
“Come on,” I say, hefting both our bins. “Let’s get these sorted.”
She protests and says she’s capable of carrying her bin, but I ignore her. We head toward the main building, and I watch her take in the families wandering between the apple trees, couplesposing for selfies by the pumpkin displays, and kids running around with sticky fingers from caramel apples.
“Busy place,” she observes. “And so cozy.”
“It gets busier every weekend through Halloween,” I tell her as I put the bins down. “Hey, you want some cider? Jackson’s Orchard makes the best in the county.”
“Cider? It’s not even noon,” she says with a laugh.
“So? It’s apple cider, not bourbon,” I tell her.
She’s kind of right, of course, but I don’t want her to go yet. I’ll do anything to keep her here.
“Come on. My treat.”
She shakes her head and grins. For a split second, I think she’s going to turn me down again and leave, but then she says. “I can’t say no to a free drink, can I?”
Relief spreads through me at her words. I’m not ready to let her go yet.
Chapter Three
Vesper
I can’t believe how much fun I had this morning. When Parker first caught me sneaking around the orchard yesterday, I was honestly a little scared. He’s so big and burly, with those broad shoulders and that intense stare, and I thought I was in serious trouble. I honestly figured I’d be spending today with a grumpy mountain man.
But now, sitting here with fresh-brewed apple cider after a morning harvesting pumpkins with him, I realize Parker is nothing to be afraid of. He’s charming and kind, and not as bitter or grumpy as I thought. I expected to spend a few miserable hours picking pumpkins as punishment for my trespassing, but instead I found myself laughing and talking with him like we’d known each other for years.
Something about him puts me at ease, even though I usually keep my guard up around men I’ve just met. Maybe it’s the way he insisted on carrying both our bins without making a big deal about it, or how he patiently showed me which pumpkins were ripe without making me feel dumb for not knowing. Whatever it is, I’m starting to think that getting caught in that orchard might have been the best mistake I’ve ever made.
I take another sip of my cider. It’s delicious. Crisp and sweet with just the right amount of spice. But what’s even better iswatching Parker in his element. We’re sitting at a picnic table outside the main building, and I have a front-row seat to see how this place works and how much people appreciate his presence.
“Parker!” A woman with greying hair and a warm smile approaches our table, carrying a basket of fresh donuts. “How’d the harvest go this morning?”
“Good haul, Martha,” he says, standing to give her a quick hug. “This is Vesper. She’s the photographer I told you about.”
Martha’s eyes light up. “The one who snuck into the private part of our orchard yesterday.”
I blush. “I’m sorry.”
She waves away my apology with a laugh. “Don’t worry about it. I hope Parker’s been showing you all our best spots to take pictures.”
