She turns, surprise flickering across her features. Then her face clears, breaking into a smile so relieved it hurts to look at. The effervescence in my chest flares and eats away at the last of my better judgment.
I should’ve said no.
* * *
The pumpkin patch at Hollow Creek Farm is every bit as corny as I expected.
Orange tones dominate the landscape—pumpkins of every size scattered across the field, hay bales stacked into photo-op pyramids, string lights everywhere. The air smells of cider and caramel apples. Bluegrass music plays from hidden speakers, and children run shrieking between the rows of gourds while their parents trail behind with cameras.
At least it’s a warm day. The sun hangs golden in a cloudless sky, and being outside beats hiding in my study pretending I’m not obsessing over my fake wife’s mouth.
Rebecca Evans greets us at the entrance, her smile welcoming despite the family history.
“You made it!” She pulls Peyton into a hug. “The carving stations are in the barn. Pick your pumpkins first, then head over. And don’t forget to try the apple fritters—they’re life-changing.”
She nods at me, civil if not warm. “Liam.”
“Rebecca.”
And that’s as friendly as we’re getting.
Peyton and I wander into the patch, selecting pumpkins from the endless orange sea. She picks a round, regular one. I grab a misshapen reject that no one would choose and that I won’t feel guilty for ruining with my nonexistent carving skills.
We carry our finds to the barn, where long tables are set up with tools and various paints. Lila is inside, sitting next to January and working on giving her lantern a scary pair of fangs.
We go to their table since there’s still space.
“Hey!” My best friend jumps up to hug Peyton, then gives me a puzzled frown. “You’re carving a pumpkin?”
“Yeah, why?”
Lila stares at me a moment longer, then turns to Peyton. “Mind if I steal my BFF for a second?”
Peyton laughs. “Go ahead. I’ll guard your pumpkins.”
Lila grabs my arm and drags me out of the barn, around the corner, where you’d bring a metaphorical dog to shoot.
She releases me and crosses her arms over her chest. “How was the game last night?”
“You want to talk football?” I frown at her. “Did you hit your head?”
“No, but my Instagram stories have been flooded with videos of a very hot kiss.” Her eyes gleam.
My jaw tightens. “We were on the Kiss Cam. We didn’t have a choice.”
“The court would believe the witness…” Lila’s tone mocks how a lawyer would speak in a cross-examination—or at least the TV version. “…if not for a longer video posted by one Macey Young—bless her heart—that shows a second kiss.” She holds up two fingers. “Initiated by the witness.”
“What are you getting at with this?”
“I want to know if you’re into your wife.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say flatly. “I can’t risk anything with Peyton. I need this marriage to last.”
“Let me guess, by not getting emotions involved? What a pile of crap.” Lila’s teasing expression fades, replaced by a serious pout. “The only risk is not risking. If Peyton is the woman who can breach your unbreachable heart, you should give yourself permission to explore it.”
“Lila—”
“Fuck your dad.” She cuts me off. “Impressing Charles is not worth letting someone who could be important slip away.”
