I groan. “You and your emails.”
“Hey, they’re helping you.” She leans over, stealing one last kiss. “Want to pick up again tonight?”
“Tonight,” I promise.
We dress clumsily, stealing a kiss or five before either of us is in a state to leave the trailer.
Outside, the air smells clear and wet. I walk her to her car. Pumpkin trots ahead with his tail held high. The air is crisp enough that our breath fogs between us.
At the car, I push her back against it. Tilting her chin up, I kiss her again. Slow. Lazy.
The kind of kiss you give when you have all the time in the world. I wish we did.
She smiles against my mouth. “See you later, boss.”
“Hmm. Maybe don’t call me that when you’ve just left my bed.”
“Fine. See you later, Quinn.” She climbs into the driver’s seat, still smiling.
I don’t realize I’m wearing a matching smile until long after she’s driven away.
I try to work. I really do.
There’s always work to be done. A broken fence post near the hay maze. One of the apple cannons’s brackets is bent. And there’s a light out near office.
I keep my hands busy, but my head keeps replaying the way she’d laughed when I’d saidstay.
By midafternoon I’m halfway through replacing a section of fence when I hear tires crunching on gravel. Dylan’s truck pulls up beside me. He hops out, phone in hand, expression tight.
“Don’t freak out,” he says, which is the exact phrase that guarantees I’m about to lose my mind.
“What now?”
He holds out the phone. On the screen is a social-media post—Karen’s profile picture, her smug grin centered above a photo taken from a distance.
Squinting my eyes, I see it.
Me. Tricia. Her back against the car, my hand at her waist, her head tilted up as we kiss good-bye.
The caption:So much for wholesome family fun at Carver Family Pumpkin Patch. Looks more like a brothel than a farm.
For a second, all I can hear is the blood in my ears.
“Lanie sent it,” Dylan says quietly. “Said it’s already making the rounds. Comments, shares… you know how this town gets.”
I hand the phone back, jaw tight. “When?”
“An hour ago.”
I glance toward the road where Tricia’s tire tracks have already faded. “She doesn’t know yet.”
“Quinn…” Dylan hesitates. “It’s ugly. And if Karen’s tagging the chamber of commerce, the sponsors… It could cause problems.”
I nod once, throat burning. “I’ll handle it.”
By the end of the day, my nerves are shot.
I’ve drafted and deleted three statements in my head. Press release, apology post to our profile, anything. But the truth is, I don’t owe Karen, or the public, a damn word.
