Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 85267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Charlie takes a selfie, holding up two fingers and kissing the air.
Jesus.
Even that’s adorable.
I meander over to where she’s standing, already hovering over a medium-sized pumpkin with a ridiculously long stem.
“I found mine.”
“It’s been two minutes. You sure you don’t wanna walk around more?”
“Nope. This here is my guy.”
Her guy. Her pumpkin with the long, thick stem.
Typical female.
“You don’t want one that’s bigger?”
“Nope.” She jerks her head once, nodding stubbornly. “I’m committed to this one. Size isn’t everything, you know—he might be small, but he’s mighty. Look at this stem! I can paint it or bedazzle it, or put a bow on it…” Her eyes search the ground. “You still have to pick yours out.”
I do, but I’m in no rush, because who gives a fuck about a pumpkin.
Except, Charlie is eyeing me expectantly, and I’d feel like a horse’s ass disappointing her since this is the reason we came.
It was my idea.
That and the fact that I wanted to impress her, and I wasn’t going to do that taking her to a college bar, or to a movie, or down to the band shell where absolutely everyfuckingbody on campus goes on their dates.
I step three feet to my left and point to a lopsided pumpkin on the ground. “How ’bout this one?”
Charlie rolls her eyes. “Put some thought into it.”
Put some thought into it? How the hell do I put thought into choosing an overgrown gourd? This was such a bad idea.
“Fine.” I point again. “That one?”
My date wrinkles her nose. “Too bumpy. Plus, it’s covered in dirt.”
Oh my god.
“That one looks good.”
Charlie examines it then shakes her head again. “Meh.”
“Whose pumpkin is this? It ain’t yours, so why don’t you let me figure it out?”
“Because you’re just pointing to random ones. Don’t you want it to mean something?”
“Mean something? It’s a pumpkin.”
“I know, but when we get back to your place to carve them, don’t you want to—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I interrupt. “Back to my place to carve them? Slow your roll, Charlotte.”
She tilts her head and crosses her arms. Willfully.
Shit. I know that look; I’ve seen it before on my mama. Charlie is about to dig her heels in for the long haul, and I doubt it’s an argument I’m going to win. Not if she has her mind set on comin’ back to my place, which it seems like she does.
“We can’t carve these at my place,” I insist, kicking at a rock with the toe of my brown leather boot.
Her arms are still tight across her chest, hair kicking up from a passing breeze. “Why not?”
“No knives.”
“Oh my god, shut up.” She laughs. “You do too have knives.”
“Nope. No knives.”
She considers me a few moments, gauging the sly grin pasted on my face, looking me over from head to toe, starting from the tips of my boots. Up the front of my jeans. The clean, navy polo I’ve only worn one other time and that looks brand new. Her eyes take in my broad shoulders, thick neck, and the humor playing in my eyes.
At least—I hope she interprets all that, because she’s not saying anything and neither am I, and it’s fucking cold and I still haven’t chosen a damn pumpkin.
“Why don’t you just pick one for me?” I suggest.
“Why don’t we pick one out together?” she volleys back. “How about I put mine back and we get a cute one and carve it together.”
A cute one?
Jesus.
Going back to my place and carving that little bastard sounds way too fucking domestic, and I’m not looking to be tied down.
Fun, yes.
Relationship, no.
Then what are you doing on this date, smartass?
Still…
I cave. “Fine. We’ll get one.”
She takes her time with the selection, dragging me around the pumpkin patch, one hay wagon having come and gone, picking people up and dropping off a few more.
Charlie has me by the elbow, using me for support; her heels or sandals or whatever get caught up so many times in divots, she’s resigned to hang on to me—not that I’m complaining. Fingers pressed into the crook of my arm, her blonde hair hangs in a wave, catching light and glowing as the sun slowly begins setting in the distance.
Together, we critique different sizes and shapes of orange pumpkins, discussing various ways they could be carved.
“This might be fun with a football on it. You could put it on the steps outside with a candle inside. That would be cute.”
Cute.
“It would get smashed within ten minutes.”
“Ugh, you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.” Her eyes get wide. “Oh, Jackson! How ’bout that one?”
Fuck. I love it when she says my name.
Jackson. Not JJ, or Triple J, or Junior, like everyone else calls me, including my parents and my friends. I’ve always thought it was kind of impersonal in a way, though great for keeping people at arm’s length.