Page 3 of Pumpkins for Parker
Truth is, I should’ve let her off with a warning. After all, it was an honest mistake. The field she wandered into borders the public orchard, and she wasn’t doing anything wrong. She was only taking pictures for some magazine.
But I couldn’t let her go. I wanted to see her again, so I told her she owed me and should help with the harvest today. Probably not my smartest move. She didn’t exactly look like she knew a lot about pumpkin harvesting.
I pull on my gloves and head to the entrance of the orchard to wait for her.
At five minutes to eight, a rental car pulls into the parking lot. Vesper gets out, and an unfamiliar sensation passes through me at the sight of her. Like a flutter or something equally ridiculous.
I push myself off the lamppost I’m leaning against and walk toward her. She’s wearing jeans this time. Fitted ones. With boots that look brand-new and a jacket that probably wasn’t made for manual labor. She scans the orchard with a frown, her camera bag slung across her chest. Determination is written all over her face. She looks ready to start today’s work. That or she’s pretending to be.
“Ready for this?” I ask.
She nods. “Sure am. And thanks again for letting me take pictures today.”
I don’t remember explicitly agreeing to that part, but I can’t say no. Lots of people head to our orchard for pumpkin picking, cider tasting, and more, and they all snap pictures like their lives depend on it.
I lead her toward the rear of the barn where the harvest bins are stacked. “You ever harvested pumpkins before?”
“Not professionally. But I’ve picked one out of a grocery store bin before, so I’m pretty sure I’m qualified.”
I snort. God help me. Not only is she gorgeous, but she’s also funny.
We walk toward the fields in silence. I glance at her, watching her eyes widen when she takes in the rows of bright orange pumpkins. A surge of pride rolls through me. That’s right. Jackson Orchard has the best pumpkins in a twenty-mile radius. We’ve won a few prizes over the years. Seeing her appreciate our hard work is the best kind of recognition there is.
“So, you own this place?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No. I’m a family friend.”
She looks at me expectantly, like she wants me to tell her more. Fine then, I guess.
“I’ve known the Jacksons a long time. They helped me out when I needed it, and now I help them out.”
“That’s vague and mysterious.” She grins. “But I like mysterious men.”
I can’t help but return her smile. I almost want to tell her more, but that’s dangerous territory. I’m not exactly the sharing type, especially not when the topic is this sensitive. It brings back horrible memories of my parents abandoning me, and I don’t want to go there right now.
We reach the first row of pumpkins, and I set a harvesting bin down next to her. “The goal is to find the ripe ones. You want them firm, with a deep orange color and the stem still attached.”
She nods seriously, like I’m teaching her nuclear physics instead of pumpkin picking. “Got it. Firm and orange.”
I crouch down next to the first good vine, and she mirrors me. Her shoulder brushes against mine, and I swear electricity shoots straight through me. Fuck. This woman is going to be the death of me.
“Is this one good?” she asks, pointing to a pumpkin.
“No, but this one is,” I say, tapping a perfectly ripe pumpkin with my knuckles.
When I look at her to see if she understands, she’s not even looking at the pumpkin. She’s looking at me, and her eyes cause my heart to do that ridiculous fluttering thing again.
“You have nice hands,” she says. “Can I photograph them while you’re harvesting?”
Christ. My body immediately responds to the way she’s looking at me.
“I guess,” I say with a shrug of the shoulder.
She snaps a few pictures while I try to focus on my tasks, but I fail miserably.
“There. Thanks…” She laughs. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Parker,” I tell her. “Now, you try harvesting a pumpkin.”
