Page 13 of Pumpkin Patch Pack
Expired milk.
He straightens, putting a careful distance between us. “Post whatever you think is best. We trust your judgment; that’s why we hired you.”
The vote of confidence tugs a smile from me. “I’ll have the first posts up this afternoon, then. And I’ll show Theo how to approve the captions I’ve drafted for future content so he can check for accuracy.”
Rowan nods, seemingly satisfied. “Good. And Emma—” he pauses, his expression softening. “Is the cottage working out all right for you? Is there anything you need?”
“It’s perfect,” I assure him. “I have everything I need.”
He nods again. “Dinner’s at six if you want to join us. I know you didn’t have time to do any errands. Nothing formal, just food in the kitchen. Or you can take something back to your cottage if you prefer.”
The thought of a meal with all three men makes my stomach tighten with anxiety.
“I might just take something back, if that’s alright,” I say. “I still have a lot of work to get through.”
“Whatever works for you. The kitchen’s always open.”
After he leaves, I turn back to my laptop, but my concentration has gone out the window. These brief interactions have left me feeling off-balance.
They’re just being kind. Just professional kindness to a new employee.
I spend the rest of the afternoon scheduling posts, creating a hashtag strategy, and drafting captions. By the time the sun begins to set a golden light through the windows, I’ve accomplished more than I expected.Harvest Home Farmnow has an Instagram aesthetic, a content plan, and its first properly hashtaged post—a beautiful shot of morning light on thepumpkin field that’s already garnered more engagement than any of their previous attempts.
At six, I slip into the kitchen just long enough to assemble a sandwich from the ingredients Theo left out on the counter, along with a note that says, ‘Help yourself! –T’ with a smiley face. There’s also some pasta casserole, but I don’t want to overstep. I avoid the dining room, where I hear male voices and laughter, and hurry back to my cottage with my dinner.
Inside, I eat at the small table by the window, watching as twilight settles over the farm. Feeling full and satisfied, I realize this is the first time I have had three meals in five months.
As I chew, I trace my finger along a knot in the wooden table. Outside, the pumpkin fields are all dark, creating shadows that stretch across the soil. A few workers head toward their cars, their day finished.
I stay glued to my window well after my sandwich is eaten.
In the distance, I can see Liam leading animals into the barn for the night, his imposing figure unmistakable even from here.
My phone pings with a notification. The Instagram post I created has already gained new followers.
Small progress, but progress nonetheless.
I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. The cottage is quiet except for the occasional creak of settling wood. No sirens like in the city. No neighbors fighting through thin walls. No need to check the locks three times before I can relax.
Well, I will still check the locks.
Some habits die hard.
But something feels different tonight. My shoulders aren’t quite as tense as they’ve been for the last few months, and my breathing is easier.
I feel something close to contentment.
Not safe, not yet, maybe never that, but useful.
Productive.
The social media work lets me slip back into a version of my old self—the one who confidently presented campaign strategies in boardrooms, who had colleagues and a future and plans extending beyond the immediate future.
I press my forehead against the cool window glass.
Don’t get comfortable.This is temporary.
Still, I can’t help but feel a tiny spark of something I thought I’d lost forever.
