Page 183 of The Hookup Situation
I chuckle. “That’s what you wake up thinking about?”
“Of course,” she says, propping herself up on an elbow, like there’s no other answer. “It’s myfavoritetime of year.”
I pull her down for a kiss. “Are you sure you’re ready for me to out-carve you?”
She kisses my shoulder. “Oh, you can try.”
I kiss her, slowly. She smiles against my mouth. We don’t rush the moment; that’s the luxury of having peace.
An hour later, we’re at Hollow Manor, moving toward the back porch of the gothic mansion. Autumn has turned Hollow Manor’s backyard into a pumpkin battleground. Fifty pumpkins—no exaggeration—sit in rows like an orange army, surrounded by bins of tools and bowls for seeds. Battery-operated candles wait in boxes.
Autumn adjusts her high ponytail on her head, and then she smooths down her black-cat-print apron like a seasonal general.
“We’re carving all of these?” Julie asks.
It seems like a lot.
“Oh, yeah,” Autumn says. “I want the sidewalk to glow and greet every guest. Oh, please keep the seeds. I want to roast them before the party.”
Julie drags her palm over a lineup of gourds like she’s choosing a racehorse. “This one’s mine.” Then she beelines for a deeply unfortunate, wart-covered pumpkin. “And I want that one too.”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “I get the troll pumpkin.”
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” she says, already hauling it to her side of the picnic table.
Zane appears, carrying a tray that has apple cider, cinnamon doughnuts, and a bowl of candy corn, which he pretends he’s not eating by the fistful.
“Saw Blaire this morning. She said Mercury is no longer in retrograde,” he announces.
Julie snorts. “Very good to know. Perfect timing actually. Is she coming?”
“She said she was going antiquing with her mom.”
“Oh, good!” Julie says.
I lift a carving knife like a saber. “Ready?”
Julie grabs one as well. “Oh, yes. Prepare to be humbled.”
We work across from one another. The first slice of the lid releases that sweet, earthy smell of pumpkin. Julie lets out a contented sigh that I file under top ten sounds I’d like to hear for the rest of my life. She draws her design with a marker and chews on the inside of her cheek with concentration.
I steal glances more than I carve.
“Eyes on your own gourd, Banks,” she says without looking up.
“Oh mygourd. I can’t help it. You’re gorgeous.”
She slings a handful of pumpkin guts at me.
I throw some back with a laugh.
She gasps like I’ve violated the Geneva Conventions and retaliates with a scoop that lands across my sweatshirt. I move to her side of the table, closing the distance.
“Dirty play,” I say.
“Fair play,” she counters. “You started it.”
I pull her closer until the scoop drops to the table and her palms slide to my shoulders. The kiss starts playful and goes somewhere else. Her fingers curl in my shirt, and the world shrinks to nothing. I taste the cider on her mouth and hear the sound of her soft, happy sigh.
