Page 27 of Pumpkin Patch Pack
The thought alone makes my pulse quicken, but I push down the anxiety. I have a job to do. Besides, I’ve cataloged exit routes and calculated how long it would take to reach my cottage from various points on the property.
My strategy is simple: document from the periphery.
I’ll stick to the edges of crowds, capture candids from a distance, and avoid lingering anywhere too long. When groups get thick, I’ll focus on the outskirts or find elevated positions to shoot from. If an unwanted alpha approaches, I have my Alpha-Away spray in my pocket, ready to deploy.
My phone buzzes with a text from Theo: “It’s showtime! First cars pulling in!”
I grab my phone and take a deep breath.
I can do this. Just fade into the background and do my job.
By ten o’clock, the parking lot is already half full. Families with excited children, couples holding hands, and groups of friends with pumpkin spice lattes clutched in their hands stream through the entrance, where Theo has set up a welcoming arch of corn stalks and fairy lights. The transformation ofHarvest Homefrom working farm to autumn wonderland is complete, and seeing it through the visitors’ eyes makes me appreciate anew how magical this place is.
I position myself behind a large oak tree, my phone camera ready to capture candid moments for social media. I see a littlegirl’s delight meeting Buttercup the pony, a couple stealing a kiss by the pumpkin display, and a group of friends posing with apple cider and donuts. Each image tells a story of autumn memories being made, exactly as I promised.
The farm’s new Instagram story is already gathering views. It features real-time updates showing the day’s activities tagged with carefully chosen hashtags that will expand our reach. I move through the crowds, capturing moments without becoming part of them. It’s a skill I’ve perfected—being present but not noticeable, documenting without participating.
Near the cider press, Theo holds court, demonstrating how apples become the sweet, spiced drink everyone clutches in their distinctive Harvest Home Farm cups. He’s in his element—charming and enthusiastic, he makes each visitor feel like they’re getting a personal experience rather than a rehearsed demonstration.
“The secret,” he’s telling a captivated audience, “is in the blend of apples. You need something tart, like a Granny Smith, to balance the sweetness of the Honeycrisp.” He winks at a woman in the front row who giggles in response. “It’s all about finding the perfect balance.”
I snap a photo of him mid-explanation, his hands animated, his smile bright, apple chunks and cider flying. It’s a perfect shot—authentic, engaging, precisely the kind of content that performs well.
As I lower my phone, I catch Theo’s eye across the crowd. His smile shifts, becoming something more personal, just for me. He raises his cider mug in a small toast, and I smile back.
Moving quickly, I head toward the farm stand where Rowan oversees operations. Unlike Theo’s performance, Rowan’s presence is understated but unmistakable. He resolves a pricing question, directs a new employee, and checks inventory. He’s dressed in dark jeans, a shirt with a sweater over it, rolled upat the elbow, and work boots—simple but attractive. I’m not the only one watching; several women nearby have paused their shopping to track his movements, their interest obvious.
A spike of jealousy catches me off guard, and I push it down. I have no claim on Rowan or right to feel anything about who watches him or why.
What am I thinking? He’s my boss.
The rational part of my brain is screaming at me to get it together, but my body isn’t listening. The jealousy twists in my chest, hot and sharp beneath my ribs. My fingers tingle with the urge to move, to step between Rowan and whoever is watching him with those appreciative eyes.
I shift my weight, suddenly too aware of the distance between us.
Twenty steps.
That’s all it would take to be at his side, to stand close enough that everyone would know… what exactly?
He looks up suddenly, as if sensing my gaze, and our eyes lock. His nostrils flare slightly, his posture straightening. I reluctantly break the connection, pretending to check something on my phone.
What is wrong with me?
This possessive reaction is entirely inappropriate. I’ve never felt this way before… this primal, almost territorial instinct.
It’s embarrassing. Unprofessional.
Get it together, Emma.
I take a deep breath and refocus on visitors and families with wagons full of pumpkins, teenagers posing for selfies by the corn maze entrance, elderly couples wrapped in plaid blankets sharing caramel apples on hay bales, and the sticky-sweet smell that carries on the breeze.
I’m crouched behind a display of gourds, trying to get an artistic shot of children selecting pumpkins, when I see him through my phone’s camera.
My phone slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers, and for a second, I’m back in the city, backed against a wall with Marcus’s hand around my throat. The noise of my phone hitting the ground snaps me back, and I begin to breathe again.
He’s still there, though, standing across the crowded farm grounds.
He hasn’t seen me yet, too busy flirting with the teenage girl working the register. But he will, even though my hair is not styled and my clothes are stripped down to forgettable, two sizes too big.
