Pumpkin King Page 3

  In my mind, I see myself wrapping my fist around that knot of material at her bellybutton to tug her closer and then covering that tiny pool of sweat with my mouth, tasting it with my tongue, lapping it up, and swallowing.

  “No,” she says. “You did give me a map and I lost it. Must have fallen out of my pocket while I was working.”

  Only half kidding, I say, “I’ll have it tattooed on you so you don’t lose it again.”

  She laughs. “But then what will I do next year when you cut a whole different pattern into the cornfield?”

  Before I can stop myself, I reply, “I’ll keep it the same if it means you’ll come back.”

  She looks at me incredulously. “I mean, of course, I’m coming back. I love this job already. It’s a great workout.”

  Want to hug her. Want to kiss all the sweat off her forehead. Pull her into the shower so we can lather up together, rinse off while we kiss, grope and playfully grapple, then toss her onto my bed and get all kinds of dirty in other ways.

  I’m wandering into dangerous territory. My dirty, selfish thoughts are starting to drown out the ethical, logical thoughts.

  And I don’t care.

  Chapter Five

  Jane

  Nothing about what Helen said has changed my opinion of Henry.

  Honestly, I was relieved this morning when she told me about his supposed crimes. He’s not a sex offender. Sadly, sex offender is always my first thought when someone tells me to avoid a person. I’m relieved he’s not a drug dealer or a habitual gambler or an alcohol abuser who starts fights. All of these possibilities had played through my head as I slept last night.

  But Henry has committed no crimes. Uncle Howie didn’t necessarily commit any crimes either, even if he was wildly irresponsible.

  With half the workday completed, and Henry having behaved like the perfect professional in every way, I feel even more confident about my decision to work for him.

  When I’ve finally convinced him that I’m neither overheated nor in any danger of sunstroke or dehydration by drinking half the bottle of water he’s brought to me, he hands over a bag from the local diner.

  “Lunch,” he says.

  I look around the place. “OK, where do we sit?”

  He squints and realizes he hasn’t provided any sort of seating anywhere at this place. “Huh,” he says. “Big Daddy might be able to hold the both of us.”

  I look over at the giant 600-pound pumpkin that marks the entrance to the pumpkin patch. I’ve no doubt it could hold the weight of both of us, but it looks like an awfully snug arrangement for the boss and his employee.

  Not that I don’t want to get cozy. I don’t think he’ll try anything, but I might just try to jump his bones.

  Maybe it’s the unusually warm fall day. Or the fact that he noticed I was lost in the maze and went to the trouble to help me out without me even calling out for help. Or maybe just because he looks so freaking hot in that sweaty Henley shirt. But I’m feeling urges to do things.

  My body knows how long it’s been, and it knows how much I like to tamp down my needs to put Sarah first. But now, being away from her, combined with being close to the hottest, kindest, friendliest person I’ve met in a long time, my needs are starting to rattle their cage.

  “Follow me,” he says. “Nice and shady in here.”

  I follow him into the barn that he’s converted into the gift shop. Gladly, I think. I will gladly follow those Levi’s everywhere.

  The way his easy walk shows off his ass—the man moseys, actually moseys—makes all the parts below my navel ache. The waffle-knit shirt clings to him in all the right places, from his broad shoulders to his slightly dad-bod waist. The sweat-soaked areas around his armpits, stomach, and upper back only add to the whole attraction; he’s a hard-working man. I’ve never been with a man who did physical labor outside of the gym.

  Thoughts creep in about how much I would love to tug off that sweaty shirt to see what’s underneath. I wouldn’t even care if his tummy was slightly soft; it would only remind me of the way he chowed down on those funnel cakes, and the memory is sexy as hell.

  “How about here? It’s not much, but we can sit on the straw bales,” he suggests.

  I agree with this idea wholeheartedly. The farther away from the house, the better.

  Lined up against the wall of the barn are rows of pallets with pre-picked pumpkins for people to browse, as well as a few pallets of decorated gourds, dried corn, and stacks of decorative straw bales.

  “You know, I was thinking,” I say, needing to pull my mind away from thoughts about forgoing lunch, sliding onto his lap, and dry humping him until that silly straw bale he’s sitting on falls apart. “You might want to do some kind of a game inside the maze.”

  Munching away on his burger, he looks at me curiously. “I thought the maze was the game.”

  “It is,” I say. “But it would set yours apart if you had some stations in there, like some clues that would lead to hidden treasure? Or maybe just tell a story? A bench to rest on in case people get tired would also be a welcome addition.”

  He nods solemnly. “A bench. I was thinking of making it haunted, but go on.”

  I reply, “If you want families with little kids here to spend their money, maybe don’t scare the pants off of them.” I hate being so bossy, but when my mind is on a roll, I can’t stop my mouth. “And while we’re talking about benches, you could really use some picnic tables out there. People could have a picnic after they shop for their pumpkins. The corn maze works up an appetite. The longer they stay, the likelier they are to buy more stuff.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” he says, nodding thoughtfully.

  The ideas keep coming and Henry gives me encouraging looks. Most people get overwhelmed when I spew all my ideas at once, but he’s rolling with it. “And a playground. I’ve seen some pumpkin patches with playgrounds that do really good business.”

  Henry sits back and smirks at me playfully. “You didn’t mention your last job was at a pumpkin patch. You know a lot about this.”

  I laugh. “It wasn’t. I was a capital investments manager.”

  Henry stares at me blankly. “I have no idea what that is, but it sounds important.”

  “It can be. It’s stressful. I loved it, but there’s not much of that kind of thing to do around here,” I say.

  I can tell by the way he’s looking at me he wants to ask why I moved here with no job prospects. Why I quit my last job. But he doesn’t want to pry. Bless him.

  “Sarah’s dad is why I left that life and came to live with Rocket temporarily.”

  Henry doesn’t respond with words, but his eyes tell me he’s listening intently, with no judgment. So I finish the story.

  “Sarah’s dad was a colleague of mine. A rising star of the company. We dated briefly. We were careful, but I got pregnant anyway. Condom broke. It happens sometimes. We were already broken up when I had her. He told everyone the baby wasn’t his, even after the paternity test. He twisted the whole situation to make it look like I was trying to get money out of him because he was on track for a big promotion. None of that was true. Then suddenly something changed. He must have decided after meeting the president of the company, a real family man, that he wanted to make that kind of impression. Put on a good face. Have a daughter as a prop. Well, I wasn’t having it.

  “He and I never really had any kind of custody agreement and he’d never given me money to take care of her, which was fine with me because he’d never before wanted to spend any time with her. I left town with Sarah. And I didn’t tell him.”

  “Whoa,” he says.

  “I know it sounds bad.”

  Henry crumples up his sandwich paper and tosses it into the bag. “No. You misunderstand me. I mean whoa, as in, wow. I love that you did that.”

  Relief that Henry isn’t judging me floods through my entire soul. “Thank you,” I say. Apart from Rocket, he’s the only person I’ve told my story to.
/>
  “I don’t blame you one bit. I would have done the same thing if I were you. I would have given him a knuckle sandwich and then left, but I’m not as elegant about things as you are.”

  I smile as we finish our lunch in comfortable silence. When I’m finished, Henry grabs all the trash away from me and tosses it in the bin.

  I’m dying to tell him what Helen told me. I feel like I’ve exposed myself to him in a big way and now it’s his turn. But I don’t necessarily work like that. I was ready to talk. Henry can tell me his version of Helen’s story when he’s ready.

  “Any other ideas for this place in that head of yours?” Henry asks me with a grin.

  I smile sheepishly. “Am I talking too much? Am I taking over? That’s very on-brand for me, so please tell me if I’m being too much.”

  Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on the knees of his dirty jeans.

  “Jane, I can use all the help I can get. I’ve never done this before, so whatever you think might make this place better, I’d love to hear it.”

  It’s been a long time since anyone asked me to let loose with all the ideas floating around in my head. Henry doesn’t write anything down, only rubs his chin and nods solemnly when I point out the tree we could use for a tire swing, and the old bit of fence that could be spruced up and used as a backdrop for photos. I recommend some cutesy directional signage along the highways to draw people in, a pumpkin painting station for the little ones, and hayrack rides. By the time I’m finished, we’ve used up our entire lunch break and I feel a little self-conscious.

  “I’m so sorry. You probably wanted some peace and quiet and I’ve talked your ear off.”

  He looks down at his dirty shitkickers and then back up at me. At first, I think he looks mad, but then he says, “Don’t ever go around thinking you talk too much. You can’t ever talk too much around me. I like to listen. I’ve had too much quiet and not enough peace, and you…well, I’ll be blatantly honest, you fit the bill, Jane.”

  Henry and I share a few beats of silence that feel like a tightrope between comfortable and suspenseful. I like sitting here with him and not talking. I’m usually the one to fill the silence with so much chatter.

  “Well, guess we’d better get back to work,” I say, standing. He stands as well but doesn’t make any move to leave the barn. I wonder what he’s thinking.

  And then I get an idea of what he’s thinking when he takes a step closer to me. His eyes land on my mouth and I feel my breath catch in my throat. Without thinking I wet my lips. His face is close enough I can see his nostrils flare when I do that, which sparks a heat down deep in my midsection that shoots back up to my cheeks. My feelings, my brain, every chemical in my body ping pongs in all directions. His eyes travel over my face, and before I realize it, he’s so close he could grab me. His closeness and serious expression unsettle everything physiological inside me that is supposed to remain locked up and dormant for the sake of putting all my energy into Sarah.

  I shouldn’t take notice of certain things that could distract me from my number one job of taking care of Sarah and providing a stable home life for her. I shouldn’t want to kiss him so badly. It’s unfair how attractive he is, and the way the sunlight streaming in from the open barn door glints off his golden lashes. I can’t stop myself from staring at and admiring the creases around his eyes that hint of someone who spends more time laughing and enjoying life than worrying.

  See, Jane? He has no worries. Why can’t you just enjoy the moment?

  I lean in, and he responds. And oh, my goodness. “Goodness” is the only word I can think of. His full lips feel soft and warm against mine, awakening every cell in my body. It feels like fireflies floating and bumping into each other down deep in my belly.

  The kiss lasts maybe two seconds at most, but in those two seconds, I feel fully awake. I thought I’d already caffed up for the day, but this is a different kind of awake.

  My conscience, which has issues with kissing my boss and all the ethical questions that go along with it, is not troubling me at the moment. The kiss is perfectly perfect. As sweet as I imagined it would be. And oh yes, I imagined it while I drifted off to sleep last night.

  When we pull away from the kiss, Henry immediately apologizes.

  “I’m so sorry. That’s not OK for me to do.”

  With a hint of reluctance, he puts distance between the two of us by nearly sprinting away. At the barn door, he turns to face me, where I stand, still stunned awake by everything that’s happened in the last few seconds.

  He can’t stop apologizing. “I’ll understand if you want to quit. I’ll pay you for a full day’s wages. A week, even.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not necessary,” I say, trying to smile, trying to find the words to tell him I’m not going to sue him for sexual harassment. So just say it, then. But I don’t even want to say those words. I don’t want him to think that I think of him that way at all.

  “Look,” he says, “I didn’t mean to imply that I was trying to pay you off to be silent for what I did, I just meant that if you need a week’s wages right now to tide you over until you find another job, you’ve got it. A month’s wages, even.”

  Good gravy, this man is running himself out of town on a rail over…what? A mutually enjoyed kiss in a moment of very restrained passion? I gesture for a time-out. “Listen. Calm down. I’m not mad. It was just one kiss, and I think I initiated it.”

  He nods, rubbing his chin nervously. “Still, I get it if you don’t want to work with me.”

  “It’s starting to sound like you don’t want to work with me,” I joke, trying to break the tension.

  “I do! I like you and I’d love it if you stayed.”

  I smile. “I plan to.”

  Turning around, I survey the merchandise on display in this gift shop space. As I look it over, I realize I want to help his business succeed, so I give him one important reason why I’m not leaving. “I’m staying because you need me. We need to rethink this entire display.”

  “We do?” He looks relieved to change the subject.

  “Very much so,” I reply. Waving my hand around a slapped-together display of decorative gourds sitting on top of a straw bale with a handwritten sign, I say, “First of all, we need to contain these things. And no more chicken scratch signage. Also, you need to think about your audience—it’s mostly moms and grandmas. Moms and grandmas most definitely hold the purse strings, so you need something pretty to appeal to them. I’m sure you can find somebody local who makes homemade soap, lip balms, jams, and jellies. Apart from that, you could print your logo on coffee mugs and sell them with cocoa mix. Next year, consider growing fresh flowers to sell in pre-made autumn-themed arrangements. The possibilities are endless.”

  I turn to look at him. “Are you writing this down?”

  His brow furrows. “I don’t have a logo.”

  “Do you have a computer?”

  “If you mean the machine up at the house that I use to pay bills and ignore email? Yeah.”

  “I could maybe help with that.” I tap my lip and think about what kind of software I have on my laptop that could help me make a logo. “Also, where is your Square set up?”

  “What’s wrong with the rectangular tables I have?”

  Oh my god. Why does this make me want to kiss him more? “No, I mean Square with a capital ’S.’ It’s a thing that lets you use wifi and a tablet or phone to accept payments.

  Henry crosses his arms. “This is cash only.”

  I goggle at him. “Do you hate money?”

  “I feel like that’s a trick question.”

  “You’re going to drive away a huge amount of business. Get yourself a tablet and a card reader, pronto.”

  He looks skeptical and I’m losing him fast. “Tablets and shit are expensive.”

  I nod. “Yes, they are. Then you charge extra for rides on the hay wagon around the farm.”

  He looks at me like I’ve just sprouted a pumpkin he
ad on my shoulders. “I’m not giving rides on the hay wagon just for fun,” he says. Then he sees the look on my face. “Oh. OK. I guess I am if you think that’ll work.”

  I chew on my bottom lip, trying to rein myself in. “I don’t mean to be so bossy, but this is a brand new business. And yeah, there will be some bugs to work out, but these kinds of businesses thrive by word of mouth. Moms meet each other at the coffee shop or the grocery store and they tell each other about where to take the kids for a hayride, drink cider and snap adorable photos of their babies sitting on top of old tractors decorated with cutesy autumn paraphernalia.”

  He smirks. “They do, huh?”

  “And I don’t want to overwhelm you, but if you have any gourds in unusual colors, like blue or white? You slap those together in a pretty arrangement and the bougie ladies of Instagram will pay big bucks.”

  He laughs. “Big bucks for a fuckin’ tiny white pumpkin?”

  “Yes,” I say. “It’ll pay for your tablet in a day. I promise you that.”

  His grin is full of mischief. “Care to make a wager?”

  “I thought this was a legit business, not a gambling house.”

  Henry’s hands go up in a gesture of acquiescence. “If you don’t think you can sell an overpriced gourd, then just admit it.”

  My jaw drops. What an ass. An ass in the most fun kind of way. Dammit, he’s making me more attracted to him by the second. “Oh, clearly you’re not on social media if you think those won’t sell.”

  “I’m just saying, put your money where your mouth is.” If his crinkly eyes weren’t smiling at me, I might throw a rotten pumpkin at his ass.

  “What are the stakes?” I ask, crossing my arms, waiting to hear what he has in mind. Please say I’ll have to go on a date with you if I lose, please, please, please say it.

  “If you’re right, and I make enough money to buy myself a tablet and card reader in day one, then I’ll plant a whole acre of sunflowers to sell next year.”

  “And if I lose?”

  “If you lose then I’ll cook you dinner.”