Page 9 of Pumpkin Patch Pack
Then yesterday rushes back.
Autumn Falls. Harvest Home Farm. The pumpkin patch job.
My purple dildo in a goat’s mouth.
I groan and flop back onto the pillow, throwing my arm over my eyes. “Perfect first impression, Emma. Just perfect.”
I allow myself exactly thirty seconds of mortification before pushing it aside. I can’t change yesterday, but I can control today.
My morning routine is a ritual I never deviate from. Safety lies in consistency.
Suppressant
Plain oversized clothing
And now, a patch covered by my scarf
I swallow my suppressant with a full glass of water, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste that lingers no matter how quickly I drink. I dress in a pair of shapeless jeans and an oversized cozy sweater from the secondhand store. Next comes the scent patch, carefully positioned over the scent gland on my neck. I smooth it down, ensuring the edges properly adhere to my skin. I add an extra one to ensure no lingering scent can escape and cover them with a navy scarf. The patches are expensive—a significant chunk of my monthly savings—but they’re non-negotiable.
I do not want a repeat of yesterday.
I pull my long, wavy, brown hair back into a low ponytail; practical but forgettable. Nothing that draws attention.
I brush my teeth, splash cold water on my face, and apply balm.
No makeup—the bruises on my face have fully faded now.
Unmemorable.
Outside, the morning air carries a chill that hints at the coming fall; dew sparkles on the grass, and mist clings to the distant tree line. In this gentle light, the farm looks different, like a picture in a children’s book about idyllic country life.
Walking, I take mental notes for potential social media content: the pumpkin field with the sun rising behind it, the charming weathervane atop the red barn, and the vintage tractor parked near the corn maze entrance. This place is practicallydesigned for Instagram—an authentic farm aesthetic without trying too hard.
The farmhouse door is unlocked. I hesitate before pushing it open, listening for voices.
“Deep breaths.” Normal people don’t stand outside doors for five minutes, working up the courage to enter.
I push the door open and step inside, relieved that yesterday’s burnt sugar and cinnamon are barely detectable. The extra patch works beautifully—my omega senses stay quiet, and there are no tingles or urges—just bland scent awareness, exactly how I need it. Still, one mouthwatering smell pulls me toward the kitchen: coffee and something sweet, buttery, impossible to ignore.
Theo stands at the counter, whisking something in a bowl, while Rowan sits at the island with a laptop open.
“Good morning!” Theo calls cheerfully when he spots me hovering in the doorway. “Coffee’s fresh, help yourself. Scones are about five minutes from being ready.”
“You bake?” I blurt out.
Theo grins, gesturing to himself with the whisk. “Man of many talents. Baking, event planning, and karaoke champion three years running.”
