“Are you done here? As happy as I am to see that you’re able to defeat a pumpkin, I’m ready for a little competition.” Smith stands to my left, a large pumpkin cradled in the crook of his elbow.
Why does he look like he’s shooting a damn magazine cover? Blue jeans and a black shirt covered by a yellow flannel with the sleeves rolled up his strong forearms, muscles flexing as he adjusts the pumpkin in his grip. I’ve been fighting the constant attraction I have for him, but he keeps doing things to make me break my focus. Looking at him is like watching a car crash—I know I shouldn’t look because it will only bring pain, but I can’t look away.
Through sheer force of will, I drag my eyes away from him, only lingering on his chest and arms for a moment. Again, why does he have to look so damn good?
“Now who’s arrogant?” I point out, readjusting the pumpkin in my arms. The damn thing is heavier than it looks and I’m worried it’ll slip right out of my grasp and land with a splat if I don’t set it down soon. I walk past him, heading toward the pumpkin carving stands. “Time to eat your words, big guy.”
The nickname I used for him leaves my mouth as smooth as velvet and without a thought. I whisper a silent prayer that Smith didn’t catch my slip-up or the face I made when I caught myself. It’s just so easy to fall back into what used to be. He’s bringing up all the good feelings and memories of our time together, and it’s starting to mess with my head.
Families of all ages are running around the pumpkin patch, little ones barely able to walk carry baby pumpkins around in their fat little fists refusing to let anyone hold them. Older children laugh as they climb on the hay bale fort and young couples take pictures on the oversized rocking chair. Shouts come from the corn maze, their laughter-tinged voices drifting through the wind.
Smith follows close behind me under the awning and into the pumpkin carving pavilion. The pumpkin in my arms lands with a clunk on the table at the entrance in front of the volunteer working the carving station, who greets us cheerfully, all smiles and perky voice. Smith sets his down gently with a smirk at me before reaching into his wallet.
Quick as lightning, I grab his wrist resting on the pumpkin, halting his movements. “Let me pay for the pumpkins. You paid for us to get in. Plus, it’s the least I could do before I win.” Those blue eyes like shining sapphire meet mine and for a moment, there’s no one else around. Gone are the families, the laughing children. It’s just me and him, his skin under my palm.
His eyes search my face before he nods with barely a tilt of his chin. I swallow hard, letting his wrist slide free of my grasp as I pay for our oversized pumpkins.
The young attendant wearing a purple beanie takes my money before gesturing to the rows of tables. “You can choose your station. At each one is a book of references that you can look at, or you can create your own style, which is always fun. Everything you’ll need is there, as well as trash cans for the guts.” Her face scrunches in disgust before morphing back into a cheerful smile. “We will use the seeds for next year's crop so people can come back every year to enjoy our harvest.”
Smith thanks her as he hooks his arms around both our pumpkins, saving me from the embarrassment of having to attempt to pick mine up again. “Lead the way.”
I scan the open tables and settle on two in the back placed side by side and head in their direction, Smith following closely behind. “This good enough for you? I wouldn’t want you accusing me of cheating when I win.”
Smith scoffs, those sapphire eyes rolling. “I wouldn’t dare.” He sets my pumpkin down before moving to his own table. “So, what are the ground rules?” He rests both arms on the tabledrawing my eyes to the broad expanse of his back under his yellow flannel.
“Um,” I stutter, trying to focus on anything but him. “First no using the books. We’ve got to carve entirely by freehand. Fifteen-minute limit, that way it’s as fair as possible. Oh, and we have to find an impartial judge.”
He nods his head, looking up at me through his lashes. “Sounds fair.”
We take our time setting up and adjust the materials to our liking. The knives provided aren’t the standard carving tools you get when you buy that cheap book from the store that comes with supplies. These are sturdy enough to not bend when you try to saw through the thick rind or snap in half at the slightest movement. These babies are top-notch.
“Okay, big guy. Ready to lose?” I line up my materials in the order I’ll need them and glance over at him.
“Are you ready to lose, Care?” He quirks a dark brow at me, his hair bouncing free on his forehead. I chuckle when he tries and fails, to put it back into place. He never could tame that lone piece.
The timer on my phone is set for fifteen minutes and I wiggle my fingers in anticipation. The one thing Smith and I always managed to do when we were together was have fun. And since he’s come waltzing back into my life this week, the fun I used to have has come back with him.
“Ready.” My eyes flick over to his hands, making sure he’s not cheating. “Set.” My finger poises above the button of my timer. “Go!”
Knives clatter as we both rush to get started, my fingers gripping the handle of the largest knife and quickly working to cut around the stem. I’m completely in the zone, locked in on my design, and hellbent on beating the shit out of Smith.
In no time at all, the guts of the pumpkin glide through my fingers, the slimy texture giving me a ridiculous amount of satisfaction. Next to me, Smith lets out a girlish squeal as he works on pulling the seeds and gristle from his pumpkin, making me giggle—he was always a bit squeamish.
Each scoop hits the trash can with a satisfying plop and I begin scraping the sides clean. I know I’m going to win, but on the off-chance I lose—and I won’t—I don’t want any wayward guts sticking to my hair.
With time quickly dwindling, I have to pear back on the image in my head, instead focusing on doing better than Smith. I can’t help it, my eyes flicker over to where he’s working at a frenzied pace, and for a moment we catch each other’s eye and he gives a tentative smile, one that steals my breath because it fills a need I didn’t know I had. A need to be smiled at by someone I—
Nope. Don’t go there. Focus on winning.
Pushing away Smith, his heart-warming smile, and the feelings that stir up in me, I get back to my carving before I accidentally cut myself. Being distracted by mister tall, dark, and handsome is dangerous when dealing with sharp objects.
My carving quickly comes to life, and I manage to do it without slicing my hand open. Worried about time, I glance at the timer. “Two-minute warning,” I shout too loud at Smith, who doesn’t acknowledge hearing me, instead choosing to work in silence as the time clicks down. Within no time at all, the alarm blares with finality and I back away from the table, looking to Smith to see that he’s doing the same. We’re both covered in pumpkin to our elbows and red-faced from working so frantically.
“Fifteen minutes seems longer than it is,” Smith chuckles as he leans back to examine his handiwork. “I can only hope yours looks as terrible as mine.” He smiles a crooked smile and tries to peer over my shoulder at my masterpiece.
“Oh hell no,” I reach forward and turn my pumpkin, giving him nothing but the orange rind to look at. “I’m not showing you anything until we’ve picked our judge.” I survey the mess we’ve made in our rush to finish our pumpkins, our tables littered with guts and shavings. “And looking at the mess we made, we need to clean up first.”
Smith relents, his hands up in a sign of surrender before scanning his table and cleaning his mess. I do the same; the large chunks of pumpkin thumping into the designated garbage can separate from the seeds and guts. Once our tables are as clean as when we started, we both pick up our much lighter pumpkins and search for a judge.
