Page 8 of The Pumpkin Patch Promise

She capped her pen with a clean click and set it down with the clipboard on the workbench. The opening weeks of harvest had gone smoothly, structured according to her own schedules without the interference of her sisters. Standing in the cool air of the barn, she enjoyed the sense of order that filled the space.

Sam entered through the side pedestrian door, carrying a dark leather portfolio under his arm. He wore a navy button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, his expression calm and unhurried as he crossed the barn toward her. It wasn’t any surprise to see him. He’d been stopping by frequently, examining documents and always finding time to talk to Prue. She found herself looking forward to his visits. Probably more than she should.

“Good evening. How are things going here?” Sam asked with a warm smile.

“Everything is exactly on track. What about you? Have you made any progress?”

“Not much. The secondary ledger entries from 1979 are completely cataloged," Sam noted, setting his portfolio on the edge of the workbench. "I cross-referenced the delivery vouchers for the timber repairs with the town records."

Prue looked up. "Did you find additional references to the cottage?" she asked, pulling a wooden stool closer to the bench.

"Three separate load receipts bear that address," Sam replied, pulling a folded sheet of lined paper from his pocket and laying it flat between them. "All three were signed within the space of a few days that autumn."

Prue leaned closer to examine the clear handwriting, recognizing the familiar precision of her mother's notation. "We can review the tax manifests in the main office after dinner if you want," Prue suggested, assuming his visit was focused entirely on concluding their historical research. "We have a filing cabinet in the office there that might contain some useful information."

Sam paused, his dark eyes settling on her face as though he were weighing his next words. He shifted his stance beside the workbench, resting one hand against its worn wooden edge, his posture relaxed but his attention fixed entirely on her.

"I didn't come over to ask about any of the ledgers or journals," Sam admitted. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "I actually came over to ask if you would like to have dinner with me tomorrow evening at the Hollow Table?"

Prue's fingers paused over the paper, and she looked up at him, caught off guard by the question. For the past two weeks, their conversations had been safely contained within the boundaries of his research into his mother’s past—property deeds, old maps, shipping records, and the other details they were slowly piecing together. Working alongside Sam had become so familiar that she'd barely questioned how naturally he'd begun to fit into her days. This was different. This sounded like he wanted something from her that had nothing to do with their research. But maybe she was misreading things.

"I can bring the 1980 invoice file to the Hollow Table if you’d like," Prue offered, searching his face as she tried to frame the request within their familiar routine. "The corner booth is quiet in the evenings."

Sam shook his head gently, a subtle smile touching his lips. "I don't mean a working meeting with documents on the table," Sam clarified softly. "I'm asking you out on a real date."

For a moment, neither of them spoke, and the pause seemed to stretch between them. Through the open doors, the evening breeze rustled the crimson leaves of the maples along Marchetti Lane, carrying the sweet fragrance of ripe apples and damp autumn earth.

Prue drew a deep breath, taking in the weight of his words. A familiar tightness flickered briefly in her chest, the residual instinct from years in a suffocating marriage, where every romantic gesture had eventually come with hidden expectations, subtle demands, and the gradual erosion of her personal choices. During her marriage, dates hadn’t been invitations. Not really. They had been carefully orchestrated obligations that were all about what her ex-husband had wanted or needed. Even after three years back in Harvest Hollow, the thought of entering a conventional courtship stirred a deep, instinctual hesitation. She hated that this was her first instinct. Sam was kind, and handsome, and so different from the callous corporate developer she had imagined. But instinct was a hard thing to trample down.

She looked directly at Sam, appreciating that he remained standing where he was, giving her ample physical room and making no move to close the distance or press for an immediate answer. It was one of the things she appreciated most about him. He was never pushy.

"I appreciate you asking," Prue began, keeping her voice honest. "And I really enjoy the time we spend working together. You’re very different than I had imagined, and I mean that in the best way. It’s not that I don’t want to go on a date with you, because I do. I really do. But if I'm being entirely truthful, I don't know if I'm ready for a conventional relationship."

Sam listened without interrupting, his expression remaining attentive and respectful.

"I understand," Sam said simply. "You don't owe me, or anyone else for that matter, an explanation for your caution."

Prue looked down at the workbench, her thumb tracing the smooth grain. The desire to reclaim her life was strong, but she needed to know that any path forward belonged entirely to her decisions. An idea, clear and structured, took shape in her mind.

"I have an idea. If we do this, it can’t follow a standard pattern," Prue stated, looking back up to meet his eyes. "I want to propose an agreement. To be fully transparent, this is a very one-sided agreement."

Sam nodded, resting his forearm against the workbench. "I'm listening," Sam invited.

"Six dates," Prue proposed, silently thinking she must be a little bit crazy to make a suggestion like this. Hopefully it wouldn’t send him running in the opposite direction. "Between now and the end of the harvest season in November. Exactly six."

Sam inclined his head slightly, his dark eyes showing genuine interest. "Six dates," Sam repeated, inviting her to continue.

"During those six dates, I choose every activity," Prue explained, laying out the terms. "I select the locations, I set the schedule, and I control the pace. There will be no expectations, no assumptions about where things will lead, and no obligation regarding what happens after the sixth date ends. And I retain the unconditional right to end any date at any moment, for any reason, without needing to offer an explanation."

She paused, waiting to see if he would bristle at the strict parameters, offer counter-arguments, or treat her conditions as an unreasonable test. In Prue’s experience, stating explicit boundaries had always invited criticism or emotional retaliation. In fairness, she knew how crazy it must sound.

Instead, Sam stood completely still, taking in every word with thoughtful consideration. A warmth lit his eyes, accompanied by a nod of genuine respect. He really was very handsome.

"That agreement sounds fair," Sam agreed without hesitation. "Six dates, with absolutely no expectations. I don’t know exactly what went on in your past, but I don’t ever want you to feel pressured, Prue. You hold full authority over the terms."

Prue let out a sigh of relief and smiled.

He leaned slightly closer against the timber workbench, his expression unchanged.