“Oh boy . . . how does one sum up Anne Bowman?” She looks off into the distance, swinging her feet just enough to make the truck wobble. “My mom is the perfect Southern belle. Gets up with the sun, never caught without lipstick on, and always planning the next party. She had very high expectations, still does, and I rarely meet them,” she says with a twinge of sadness.
“That can’t be true. From where I’m sitting, you’re damn near perfect, princess.” I run my hand softly down her arm, linking fingers with her and giving a gentle squeeze. She bristles a little, like a chill has taken over.
“Why do you do that?” She looks directly in my eyes.
“Do what? Are you cold?”
“No, continue to call me princess when I asked you not to.” She releases our hands and grasps her cup with both of hers, waiting for my answer. What should I say? I thought it was our thing, trading barbs and Southern-coated sarcasm.
“Well . . . to be honest, I thought you secretly liked it.” Her eyes bug out of her head. Okay, nope, she doesn’t. “When I saw you have your Marilyn Monroe moment, I stopped not because I’m a total creep, although I didn’t mind the view, but because you looked like a damsel in distress. But then you righted yourself and walked across the street like nothing had ever happened. I guess it made me think for a second, there’s a real princess, someone who straightened their crown and kept the show going. It also helps that you’re beautiful, like my very own Cinderellawaltzing about.” I look at my boots, afraid of gauging her reaction.
Her hand slides across mine as she pulls herself closer. “Sam, that’s sweet. I thought that you did it because you thought I acted like a princess, you know, in a bad way. I’m sorry.”
“I mean, you do have tendencies.” She swats me on the arm, but I grab her wrist before she finishes making contact.
“Not nice. Let me think. There has to be something I could call you that would drive you nuts. Maybe I’ll ask Max.” She winks at me, then goes back to sipping her cider.
“That’s cold. Maybe I’ll change it to Ice Princess from now on.” I smirk so she knows I’m joking, or at least I hope she does.
“Can I tell you something?” Olive looks at me with doubt in her eyes. I reach out, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close.
“You can tell me anything.”
“I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I never tell anyone. But the reason it bothers me is because my mom always called me that. I was always her little princess . . . until I wasn’t anymore.” Her voice shakes as she says it. I use my first two fingers to tip her face up toward mine.
“What do you mean? How could you ever not be her little princess?” I search her eyes for an explanation.
“Never mind, it’s nothing. Just, I’m sorry, we were having a good time and now I ruined it.” She shakes her head and takes a deep breath in through her nose, out through her mouth.
“How you feel is not nothing. I want to know. I want to be here for you, and I hate that whatever’s happening is hurting you.” I brush her hair off her face tenderly.
“I’m fine, I promise. But please, let’s lose the nickname.” She hops off the truck, grabbing the plate of cookies and placing them on the bench seat inside my door.
“Done, no more nicknames.” I smile at her sincerely. If she doesn’t like something, then I won’t do it. It’s as simple as that. “Do you want to go walk around inside the barn and look at the crafts they have for sale?”
“Sure, but have you ever seen a Southern woman shop?” She chuckles to herself, shaking her head, then links her arm through mine as we walk toward the barn. Each time she touches me it’s like electricity jolting through my body. I’m becoming addicted to the high I get from the buzzing.
Once inside, we stroll through each carefully curated booth, looking at everything from creepy voodoo dolls to classic fall decor. There’s garland, pumpkins, and enough cinnamon brooms to make a person’s eyes water. Olive picks out a pink ghost that looks a little like a stuffed tissue made out of glass, holding a sign that says, “Welcome to my humBOOle abode.” To me it’s a little cheesy, but she adores it, so I insist on buying it for her. She stomps her foot in protest until I take a risk and tickle her side, making her giggle and succumb to my will.
Afterward, we walk around the pumpkin patch, looking at the different shades and varieties when one strikes her eye. “Look at this one! It’s so ugly it’s perfect.”
“Don’t you have enough pumpkins already?” I challenge her with a look. I know for a fact there are already seventeen strewn across her porch because I put them there.
“Is there such a thing as too many pumpkins?” She winks, spinning toward the register, daring me to beat her there. I take off sprinting, hurdling a hay bale to get to the desk before she does.
“You can’t buy me everything. I have a job, you know.” She places her free hand on her hip, pouting out her perfect bottom lip.
“I’ll buy you anything you want. It’s a date, and I happen to be a gentleman.” I grin at her and take the pumpkin, which is really more of a gourd, from her hands to place it on the scale.
“That’ll be six dollars, Sam. Aren’t you two just adorable,” Mrs. Baxter says, looking back and forth between Olive and me. “My husband used to bring me here after hours to pick out my favorite pumpkin. It seemed silly at the time—we own the place. But I lost him last year and have missed him and his goofy ideas every day since.” I hand her a ten and push the change back to her as I grab the pumpkin to head out. “He sounds like my kind of guy. I’m sorry to hear that we lost another good one.”
Olive takes a step around the table toward Mrs. Baxter. “Can I give you a hug?” she asks.
“Oh dear, I would like that very much.” Olive wraps her arms around the elderly woman, whispering something in her ear that makes her giggle. “It was nice to meet you, Olive. Please come back anytime.” Mrs. Baxter grabs Olive’s face and leans in, touching their noses, and then releases her with a wink.
We walk back to the truck in silence. Butterflies dance in my belly as our night comes to a close. I place the pumpkin safely on the floor and help Olive into her seat, reaching around to buckle her in, not failing to notice how her breath hitches when my hand grazes her belly accidentally. I stroll around to my side and hop in, but before turning the ignition, I ask, “What secrets did you share with Mrs. Baxter?”
“Oh, nothing, except that I promised to let you buy me pumpkins without a hassle from now on. You know, since it’s the right thing to do.” She winks at me then faces forward.
