“I’d ask you on a date,” he says, voice rough, “but you’ve got that look that says you’ve got a deadline.”
I laugh, still dizzy. “Guilty. My editor’s expecting the piece tonight.”
“Then go write it,” he murmurs. “But when you turn it in, call me. We’ll make it official—dinner, not interviews.”
“I’d like that.”
He walks me to the edge of the trail where the trees open into light. Before I can climb into my car, he catches my hand, pulling me back for one last, searing kiss—one that promises a thousand things neither of us has figured out yet.
“Drive safe,” he says, grinning.
“I’ll see you soon.”
The second I’m back in my apartment, reality rushes in: half-written notes, a blinking cursor, the faint scent of pine still on my clothes.
I pour all of it—his words, the farm, the magic—onto the screen. The story almost writes itself.
It already has a headline, but I have the perfect subhead.
Homegrown Magic: Carver Family Pumpkin Patch Finds New Life in the Heart of Fall.
By the time I hit save, my cheeks hurt from smiling.
I send the file to Patti and stretch, limbs heavy and warm. Ten minutes later, her name flashes on my phone.
“This,” she says, no hello as usual, “is delightful. Sentimental without being sugary. It’ll be online and on the front page tomorrow morning. Great work, Miles.”
“Front page?” My heart kicks.
“Front page. People are going to eat this up. Go celebrate—preferably somewhere photogenic.”
When we hang up, I don’t even think. My fingers already know which number to dial.
He answers on the first ring. “Hey.”
“It’s official,” I say, laughing. “Front page tomorrow. You’re about to be famous.”
“Guess that means I owe you dinner.” There’s a smile in his voice. “Come over. I’ve got two steaks and a bottle of cider calling your name.”
“Give me twenty minutes.”
When Dylan opens the door, he’s still in jeans and flannel, sleeves rolled, hair a little messy. He looks relaxed, happy, and ridiculously sexy with that forearm showing.
“Congratulations, hot-shot reporter,” he says, and pulls me inside before I can answer.
The kiss at the door steals the rest of my words. It’s deep and tender and feels like every line I just wrote—homegrown, steady, real.
Inside, the table’s set: two plates, candles that probably came from Lanie’s stash. He grins when I look around.
“I promised dinner, didn’t I?”
“You really did,” I whisper.
But even while the scent wafting from the kitchen smells delicious, it’s not what I’m craving.
Narrowing the distance between us, I slide my hands up his shoulder. He wraps his around me, curving his hands around my behind. He gazes down at me as if I’m the most important person in the world.
At the moment, I feel like I am.
