Page 56
“Thanks so much,” I say, hoping Archer isn’t listening.
If he deduces that I’m doing this on my own, there’s no way he’s not going to offer his help. That will allow him more time to ask why I never texted him back.
Reese wanders away, and I grab another pumpkin. Archer still hasn’t left, his eyes on me.
“Are all these for you?” he asks.
“Yup.”
He blows out a slow whistle. “Planning on making three million pumpkin pies or something?”
I shove the pumpkin on top of another. “They’re for the harvest festival.”
“I see.”
He takes in the large pile. The mounds of orange, white, and green is a feast for the eyes, but I’m too overwhelmed to enjoy the sight any longer.
“Where are you taking them?”
“Main Street.”
“Did you lose a bet, or do you just really love pumpkins?”
I look for another small pumpkin, but those in my vicinity are getting larger. When is he going to leave? Maybe if I make it obvious that he’s inconveniencing me, he’ll get the hint.
I straighten and face him with an impatient hand on my hip. He’s wearing a maroon button-up shirt—unbuttoned—that reveals a white shirt beneath. The color gives his tanned skin a warm glow in the morning light.
“I volunteered to help with the festival,” I say. “This is just one of the things that needs to get done.”
“There was no one else to help you?”
Don’t offer your help. Don’t offer your help.
“Not today. But I’m more than fine doing it on my own.” He responds with quirked lips, which rankles my dignity. “What?”
“Nothing. Just wondering how you’re gonna manage hauling—what, over a thousand pumpkins?—all the way into town when you claim to have no upper body strength.”
I pause. I did say that to him, didn’t I? “What I lack in strength, I make up for in tenacity.”
“I believe it. But ain’t all that lifting and moving hurting your ankle and arm?”
“No. I’m good.”
I’m not exactly lying. My ankle’s mostly fine, and I can’t feel the pang in my arm anymore. Never mind that almost every inch of every muscle in every location of my body is already aching from the pumpkins.
Archer falls silent, then heads back to his truck.
That was easier to get rid of him than I thought.
I’m slightly conflicted with the fact that he’s leaving without another word or offer of help, but when he strips off his button-up shirt and tosses it into his truck, heading back to me with only his thin, white T-shirt, blue jeans, and a dark belt buckle he adjusts as he walks toward me, I frown. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Getting undressed.”
He smirks, reaching for the largest pumpkin I would have no chance of lifting. “I’m volunteering to help with the Fall Festival.”
My hand is still propped on my hip, and I watch him with annoyance. His muscles push the boundaries of his sleeves, flexing as he carries the pumpkin like it weighs nothing.
