Page 1 of Pumpkin Patch Pack
1
Emma
The rearview mirror shows nothing but an empty road behind me, but I check it anyway.
Again.
Like I have every five minutes since I’ve left the motel.
The “Welcome to Autumn Falls” sign appears suddenly around a curve in the road. Its weathered wood is painted with cheerful orange and red leaves, some of the paint chipping away at the edges.
I ease my foot off the gas, my old, rusted car chugging in protest as I slow to the posted twenty-five miles per hour.
Slow is good. Small is good. Forgotten is best.
A place where no one knows my name or my past.
My fingers tap nervously against the steering wheel, a rhythm that matches my heartbeat; fast and loud. The leather covering is worn thin where countless previous owners have gripped it, and I wonder briefly if any of them were running too.
I drive through what passes as downtown, a strip of quaint storefronts with hand-painted signs. A café with checkered curtains has a chalkboard sign advertising Pumpkin Spice Lattes. A cute boutique displays knitted scarves in its window, and a hardware store that looks like it hasn’t changed since the 1950s.
No one glances twice at my car, a beat-up 2002 Honda Accord.
The relief is so potent that my eyes sting, and I blink rapidly.
“You’re fine,” I tell myself, a habit I’ve developed over the past 5 months of solitude. “Just another face in the crowd. Just another stranger drifting past.”
Except I’m not passing through. I’m staying, at least for the harvest season.
For the next three months, I’ll be running the social media forHarvest Home Farm, a job I secured through a spotty Zoom interview in which I kept my camera angled to hide the bruise still healing on my cheek.
Three more months to breathe; to plan and decide if I need to run further or if this tiny speck on the map might actually be far enough away.
The GPS on my phone directs me to take a right onto a narrow road that winds up a gentle slope. The pavement gives way to gravel, and tall trees form a canopy overhead, their leaves just beginning to turn gold at the edges.
The air from my cracked window smells different here; earthy and clean, with none of the city’s pollution.
After a mile of forest, the trees part to reveal what can only beHarvest Home Farmspread across the hillside before me.
Rows of pumpkins dot the nearest field, their orange vivid against the dark soil. Beyond them, an orchard stretches toward the horizon, and to the right stands a large red barn with white trim that looks like it belongs on a postcard. A beautiful farmhouse, larger than I expected, sits at the center of it all, its wide porch wrapping around at least two sides.
Several smaller buildings cluster nearby: outbuildings, a farm stand, and what appear to be small cottages set back near the tree line. According to the email instructions, one of these will be mine.
I pull into the gravel lot where a hand-painted sign reads “Visitor Parking” and cut the engine.
I hear birds calling to each other, a tractor’s distant hum, and leaves’ soft rustling. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a reminder that I’ve made it this far.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. I look thinner. My eyes are too large in my face now. They stare back with a wariness that never used to be there.
I ensure my scent patch is securely in place on my neck, pressing the edges down with my fingertips. Before leaving the motel, I took my morning dose of hormone suppressants; they do a good job of both blocking my scent and my ability to pick up on scents, but the patches offer insurance.
I wrap a light scarf around my neck to hide the patch. Because nothing screamsI’m definitely an omega, quite like visible scent-blocking patches. With the suppressants and patch working together, I’m like any other beta female. My scent should be masked entirely to alphas; theirs won’t affect me either.
Win-win.
Being an unbonded omega can be dangerous, even without the added complications of my past. When alphas catch the scent,it can easily send them into a rut. And the last thing I need right now is that kind of attention, especially when it comes with possessive, growling alphaholes.
“You can do this. Just be forgettable. Do your job. Stay quiet.”
