“Now you’re thinking like a journalist.”
I roll my eyes. Right, because serious journalists make up stories about ghosts and hay mazes.
I turn onto Carver Farm Road, the tires kicking up dust behind me.
“You know,” I chew on the inside of my cheek, “in full disclosure, I grew up with the Carver kids.”
“The town is small. Everyone knows someone.”
“Yeah, but Dylan and I were best friends until senior year. I’m not exactly a prime candidate to go digging for dirt.”
“Please. You’ll be fine. Small-town bias isn’t real when you need a good quote.”
The line crackles. I’m no doubt seconds away from losing contact.
“Your deadline is Friday,” she says. “Get photos. Get color. Get me something with bite.”
The call cuts before I can tell her pumpkins don’t have teeth.
The farm sign appears around the bend:Carver Family Pumpkin Patch – Open for the Season!
The paint looks fresh and the cool air has a hint of smoke in it and sugar no-doubt coming from the Snack Shack.
I park ing the gravel lot, shoulder my camera bag, and remind myself this is just another assignment.
Easy. Get in, get quotes, get out.
The moment my boots hit the ground, someone calls, “Hey there! You must be the reporter!”
A woman with a sleek ponytail and a clipboard strides toward me, extends her hand to me. “Hi, I’m Tricia. I handle the marketing and media relations.”
“Taegen Miles,” I shake her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too! Lanie, she’s here!”
A familiar face pops out of the office trailer, wiping cider foam from her sleeve. “Seattle sends us journalists now? Guess we made it big.”
“That’s me,” I say, laughing. “Bringing big-city flair to the pumpkin capital of Alaska.”
Lanie grins. “Don’t threaten me with a good headline like that.”
Before I can answer, a tall man in a flannel jacket joins us. Broad shoulders, steady eyes, and a stern expression on his face.
Quinn Carver. He was always the most serious of the siblings, even when we were kids.
“Taegen Miles,” he says, offering a firm handshake. “I remember you from Little League. You used to strike out Dylan every game.”
“Once,” I correct, though my cheeks warm. “And he never forgave me.”
Quinn’s mouth twitches.
“Well, he’s about to. He’s running tours this morning.” He glances past me toward the barn and raises his voice. “Dylan! Need you over here!”
The name lands like a pebble dropped into deep water.
I turn before I can think better of it.
He’s climbing down from a tractor, sun hitting his flannel-clad shoulders, a rag in one hand, grease on his forearms. Broader. Older. Different in all the right ways.
