Page 80 of The False Flat

“Heirloom Pumpkin,” Grant said as I opened my eyes.

“I want to eat it,” I said.

“Well, I don’t suggest you do that,” the owner said with a laugh, “but it is one of my most popular, along with this one.” She handed me a jar, and I told Grant to close his eyes.

“Okay, what do you smell?” I asked, trying to hold in my amusement because he was never getting this one.

“Why are you laughing?”

“No reason. But this should be an easy guess.” I smiled at the owner conspiratorially.

“It smells like . . . citrus, maybe something floral, almost like hair spray, but that can’t be right.”

“What’s your guess?”

“Hmm, this is a tough one, but I’m going to have to go with Dolly Parton.”

My mouth dropped open. “How did you—”

“I saw it before I closed my eyes.” He flashed me a sheepish smile as I slapped his arm.

I set the candle down and pulled out my credit card. “Well, I’m getting Smells Like Dolly Parton because, really, how can I not?”

“I’ll get the pumpkin one.”

“You get ten dollars off if you buy three,” the woman said.

We settled on Autumn Moon because the hint of cedar reminded me of Grant.

From there we picked up a bag of brussels sprouts, a jar of maple syrup, and pasture-raised bacon because when I’d turned my nose up at the thought of brussels sprouts for dinner, he’d promised to make them yummy by adding bacon and syrup to his recipe.

We sucked on orange blossom honey sticks while I finished purchasing my lunch items: homemade tortilla chips, something called Tailgating Salsa, smoked trout dip, guacamole, and the kale pesto, which was shockingly good. All for a chip or bread and dip fiesta. We grabbed a bag of sweet potatoes to finish off Grant’s meal and then ran back to get a jar of honey—the sticks were amazing—before we headed back toward the pumpkins.

I pulled out my phone to snap a picture, focusing on a particularly tall stack with a round white pumpkin perched jauntily on top. “You know what?” I dropped my hand to my side. “Forget the picture: we should take one to Devina.”

“Brilliant. But what if we took her a whole stack?”

I clapped, surprised at my own excitement. “What if we took her two stacks for each side of her entryway?”

His eyes sparkled as he pulled me toward him until we were inches away from each other. “What if . . . we decorated her entire porch.”

I nodded, the idea warming me. “Do you think we’d be overstepping?”

“I think she’d love it. It was a great idea you had.”

As we carried armloads of pumpkins and mums, I wished the morning didn’t have to end. This was the absolute best day I’d had in a very long time. Grant made everything special. Even a tomato held a story as he had me sniff one and then imagine the hand that had picked it and the journey it had made from ground to plate, something I never would’ve done.

In the car, we drove toward my house surrounded by the scent of dirt and flowers, our surprise for Devina piled into the back. I pulled out one of the cinnamon rolls, unable to wait, and munched while Grant drove.

“I’m going to have to sign a lot more clients if we do this again. We spent a fortune.”

“Did you have fun?”

“This has been one of the best days of my life.”

He beamed in the driver’s seat. “Mine too.”

“Do you want some of this cinnamon roll? Like everything else, it’s amazing.”