Drool may or may not be coming out the side of my mouth. He looks so incredibly good—so handsome and masculine.
And it’s not just any old sweater; it’s one of those chunky fall kinds that look spun from oatmeal, birch, fireside chats, and walks in the snow.
What’s worse? He’s dressed the dog up in a costume, the little pooch trotting along happily after being hoisted down from the back seat of Tripp’s truck wearing a candy corn outfit.
Stop it right now…
God has a funny sense of humor, sending me a man who wants nothing to do with dating, relationships, or the warm and fuzzy trappings that come along with it. Like snuggling and romantic dates, and…and…
Is the pumpkin patch a romantic date?
Debatable, especially when said date is tromping through the field wearing steel-toed work boots, seemingly on a mission to get in and out.
I kneel down, fingers grazing the side of an enormous, bright orange gourd.
“What about this one?” I poke at it.
Tripp glances over his shoulder, his hand gripping Candy Corn Chewy’s long leash, scratching the stubble beneath his own chin, five o’clock shadow only adding to his metrosexual vibes.
“It’s too lumpy,” he decides, taking a few steps in my direction.
Too lumpy. Too round, too flat. Too thin.
This man is ridiculous.
“What are you looking for exactly?”
“Not too big and not too small. I don’t want to pay a fortune for something that’s going to be dead within a week,” he says seriously. “I need one that is smooth with plenty of room for sculpting the face.”
Oh, he’s sculpting now instead of carving?
Around his feet, Chewy sniffs at the leaves, happily grabbing hold of a vine with his teeth and snarling as if he’s winning a wrestling match.
He quickly loses interest and drops it, dozens upon dozens of available vines within reach.
“Chewy.” Tripp makes a kissing sound. “Come here.”
He bends, commanding the pup to sit, and arranges a few pumpkins into a fall vignette. Takes the cell out of his back pocket, cleaning the camera lens off with the hem of his sweater, then snaps a few photographs. “Such a handsome boy!” he coos to his pet, giving him a scratch behind the ears.
My panties get wet.
Tripp would make such a great dad.
I clear my throat, turning away and moving to yet another plump pumpkin in the patch.
It’s not too big, not too small, and has the perfect surface for, um—sculpting. Ha! Let’s see what Captain Picky thinks about this one.
“I think I found one.” I hoist it off the ground and hold it out, my weak arms wobbling slightly from zero workouts. “What do you think?”
Tripp stands, rising from his haunches, and brushes his hands on his faded jeans.
“That could work.” He studies it. “Yeah—I like that one. Let’s throw it in the wagon.” Tripp gives the side of the red trolly a slap, making that kissing sound again. “Come on Chewy, in the wagon you go.”
I add the pumpkin, he adds the pup, and we walk.
“Hey, that’s a good one.” Tripp points to the ground as we pass an oblong pumpkin, a bit tall, but wide enough for a decent carving. “Do you like it?”
I do.
I do!
In the wagon it goes, dog still stuffed inside, panting and grinning his merry way through the field, occasionally barking when the tractor drives by with people to let them know he’s there.
Wanting pets and praise.
Since we have the cart, we can’t get back on the hay wagon. The main barn a good quarter mile walk away, we make toward the road, my rain boots kicking up dirt and rocks, dust settling on the toe.
It feels good to be outside in the crisp weather, traipsing along beside him as he pulls the wagon through the bumpy field. Domestic, even. As if we’ve done this before—year after year.
I glance down at his hand, his large, masculine hand, wrapped around the metal handle, knuckles speckled with dark hair. Dry, cracked hands. Big. Strong.
When I look up, he’s watching me and not the road, one brow raised.
“Like what you see?”
Oh god—gross. “Who says that?” I roll my eyes and ignore him, walking faster, flipping my hair and unnecessarily sashaying my hips.
Behind me he bellows out a laugh and I’m sorry to miss seeing it, hell-bent on avoiding him while my face is flushed. Why can’t anything with him be easy?
Why can’t I read his mind to know exactly what he’s thinking? Does he like me, does he not? Is he attracted to me? Is he only here because he felt obligated?
Tripp Wallace doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to—no one makes him do anything…
I walk taller, still in front of him.
“God you’re cute when you’re mad.”
He’s laughing again and this time I do turn around; I turn around and catch the wrinkles around his eyes—the laugh lines. The bright, white smile. The dimple in his chin.
Ugh, it’s too much.
My ovaries clench.
It takes us another half hour to weigh, pay, and get through the people wanting to meet Tripp, or pet Chewy, his candy corn costume a massive hit with the crowds.
Another ten minutes while Tripp lifts the dog’s body behind one of those wooden cutouts so it looks like Chewy’s face is on Dracula’s body at the beginning of the corn maze—before we actually make our way out and settle in the truck.
My body groans into the warm, leather seat. “Thank you. This was fun.”
“Was?” He glances over at me then into the back seat at the dog. “Aren’t you coming back to the house to carve these?”
“I didn’t realize you wanted me to.” My plan was to take the thing home and set it on my stoop, untouched and uncarved. Lame, but whatever—who wants to carve a pumpkin by themselves?
Not I.
One side of Tripp’s mouth upturns into the sexiest half-grin. “Chewy back there thinks it would be remiss of me if I bought you a pumpkin and didn’t help you carve it. This one here is heavy.”
Oh lord—speaking for the dog like that is a little weird, but maybe he just has a hard time coming right out and telling me he wants me to come over?
“Okay. Yeah, that would be fun.”
“I think I have hot chocolate somewhere,” he says with a straight face, watching the road intently.
Uh. Okay. Where is this all coming from? He is the last man on earth I would expect this semi-romantic, romantic, fall date planning from. I mean—considering he was basically blackmailed/coerced into bringing me here by a calculating teenage girl.
Tripp Wallace… adorable?
No.
It cannot possibly be.
Don’t do it, Chandler.
Do. Not. Fall for him.
Don’t.
I glance over at him as he rummages through the kitchen cabinets, retrieving baking pans and spoons and a carving kit. Knife. Bowl. Another knife. Another bowl.
As if he does the choreography to this activity on the regular, bopping around the room fetching supplies that will help us with the jack-o’-lanterns.
Oh boy.
Ohhhhh shit.
It’s happening…
“Will you excuse me? I have to use the bathroom.” I pause. “Um…where’s the bathroom?”