Page 1 of Patch Perfect

one

Kate

When the last school group leaves in the afternoon, I’m more than ready for a long bubble bath. The idea of soaking in hot water instead of explaining the difference between carving and pie pumpkins fourteen times, as I did today, sounds perfect. I do love my job, but I’d also love to sit for about seventeen hours and read a steamy romance novel, the kind that makes your toes curl with a sexy biker book boyfriend.

Instead, I grab two crates of battery-powered candles and carry them into the barn. Tonight is our first adults-only event of the week. The older guests enjoy the wagon rides, hot cider, the bonfire, and the relief of knowing no one will suddenly shout that someone else's child has licked the decorative corn.

It all started on a Thursday night two years ago. Now, people come from nearby towns to enjoy the adults-only activities. This year, I added pumpkin carving and a tasting station featuring six fall-inspired wines. But with the doors opening at seven, the hayride at eight, the bonfire at nine, and closing at ten, I won’t have time for a bubble bath. I won’t even have time to shower before the adults arrive.

I turn on the fog machine by the maze entrance. When nothing happens, I turn it off, wait, and try again. Still nothing.

“Not now, you hunk of junk,” I tell the machine, lifting it onto a hay bale for a better look. “You have one job.”

The machine coughs once, spits a weak puff onto my boots, then falls quiet. I unplug the machine and give it the same look I give pumpkins with soft spots. I notice a pair of heavy boots stop on the other side of the hay bale.

“Does it respond to negotiation?” a deep voice asks.

My eyes land on a pair of black boots, then travel up to muscular thighs in denim and a black leather jacket worn over a gray shirt. The patch on his jacket reads Iron Saints. But what catches my attention most is his deep brown eyes, holding a hint of interest.

“It's considering my offer,” I say, standing. “I may have to throw in dental coverage.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I can take a look.” He points at the machine instead of touching it. “If you want.”

“Sure.” I shrug, trying not to let my attraction to him show. “But if it starts working for you, I’ll be personally offended.”

He kneels, turns the machine around, and looks at the back. “The switch is off.”

“It is not.” I lean over his shoulder. “Oh, that switch.” He flips it, and fog rolls around our shoes in a dramatic cloud. “I was testing you,” I tell him.

“Did I pass?” He rises, holding the plug so I don't trip on the cord.

“Marginally. You made me look bad in front of my own equipment.” I extend my hand. “Kate Bell.”

“Roan Mitchell.” He takes my hand and gives it a gentle shake.

“Are you here for the maze, Roan Mitchell?”

“Hayride, unless there's an entrance exam.” He glances at the glowing wagon waiting by the gate. “I'm meeting a couple of guys from the club. They're late.”

“Excellent. You can sit with the woman who failed Fog Machine 101.”

His almost-smile turns into a real one, changing his whole face, making my stomach flip in a silly way.

“You work here?” he asks.

“My family owns it—I run the evening events.” I gesture toward the fog machine. “And occasionally threaten appliances.”

“I've seen the place from the road for years.” He looks across the field toward the rows of pumpkins. “It's even better up close.”

A tractor engine starts, and I glance at my watch. “Last ride before the bonfire. You coming?”

He looks at his phone, then puts it in his pocket. “Looks like I am.”

I gather the last tickets, signal the driver, and climb aboard the wagon. Roan waits for me to choose a seat, then sits beside me, leaving just enough room for a small pumpkin between us. It's sweet, but a little frustrating. I wonder what it would feel like if his shoulder brushed mine.

As we pass the lit orchard, I start my usual guide talk. I tell everyone how to spot the scarecrow with the upside-down hat and mention that the left side of the wagon offers the best view of the moon. Roan listens and leans forward as I point out the old stone well. He asks why the pumpkins near the fence look so odd. He seems genuinely interested when I explain that the fence used to belong to a goat who wanted to be a sculptor.

“His name was Michelangelo,” I explain. “Most folks think we named him after one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles rather than the actual artist.”