Page 55 of Sing it, Sam

Sam blinks in quick succession, staring at me.

I draw my brows together. “What?”

A smile tilts his lips, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re serious,” he says on an exhale. “Aren’t you?”

I scoff. “No one jokes about pumpkins around here,” I say and smirk. “Serious town business, it is.”

“Fair enough. So why no entry? And what on earth is a Golden Nugget?”

“Well, they’re a small, round pumpkin with a deep orange colour. They kind of look like a baby basketball, a little bit bigger than your fist.” I cup my hands as if holding one of my homegrown beauties. “I’m guessing that’s why Butch decided to treat my crop like his own personal toy collection. Anyway, regardless, I’ll be there to support the community and all that. It’s a celebration of rural life.”

And by support, I mean slurp my body weight in liquid-gold pumpkin soup and golden butternut bread, followed by eating way too many pillowy pumpkin scones with whipped cream and maple syrup.

“Small towns, huh?” Sam taunts. Is he having a go at our one-hundred-year-old tradition?

My hands move to my hips. “I’ll have you know that the Rhynehart family held the record for the heaviest pumpkin for ten years running. A two hundred and twenty kilo Atlantic giant was our best.”

“Hey, your family must be really proud,” he teases.

I poke out my tongue at him. “As a matter of fact, they are.”

Sam leans forward and chuckles. Clumps of his unruly hair fall in front of his eyes. I find myself mesmerised as he sweeps his hand back through the rogue strands, revealing the smooth skin of his face once more.

I clear my throat, resisting the urge to—what did he say earlier? —throw myself at him.

“What do people do with that much pumpkin anyway?” He says it like he has no idea how he’s just affected me with a simple head sweep.

I clear my throat. “Duh. Soup and scones. What else?”

“Ihatesoup. It’s not food.”

I lean in close. “I’d say that quiet around these parts,” I warn with a smirk.

A few seconds pass where we stare at each other.

“You gonna snuggle with me, or what?” Sam challenges, patting the sliver of bedspace beside him. Slowly, he shuffles over and raises his brows. “C’mon.”

“Okay, but no more bashing pumpkins.”

“Deal,” he says, triumph splashed across his cheeky face.

I kick off my shoes and cuddle into the warmth of Sam’s side—on top of the covers. Not sure I’ll be able to trust myself under there with him.

He hums and kisses my forehead. Wiggling in beside him, I share more of my childhood memories: the face painting, the pumpkin rolling, the pride that winning ribbons brings. Talking about it only affirms my love for the event and my hometown.

“And the food,” I gush, burrowing farther into his side, “It’s amazing—so much variety. I mean, some things are crazy, like the pumpkin pie ice-cream two years ago that made me wanna puke. It was like baby food seriously gone wrong, and don’t even get me started on pumpkin spice lattes. Coffee is coffee. Drink it like it’s supposed to be drunk.”

A trolley rattles somewhere down the hall, which means soon I have to go.It’s that time already?

“And then you’ve got your curries,” I continue. “Thai style with coconut is my favourite but the Indian is pretty moreish too. A few of the alternate stalls had pumpkin and chai protein balls, which just looked plain scary. I love how people embrace it, though. Something for every taste, I guess.”

A knock on the door fills me with disappointment. I should go.

“Dinner,” a familiar voice calls out, muffled behind the timber. The door swings open.

Wide eyes flicker from Sam to me and then back to him.

“You tucker him out, girl?” Pauline asks from the doorway.

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