“What’s wrong with the rectangular tables I have?”
Oh my god. Why does this make me want to kiss him more? “No, I mean Square with a capital ’S.’ It’s a thing that lets you use wifi and a tablet or phone to accept payments.
Henry crosses his arms. “This is cash only.”
I goggle at him. “Do you hate money?”
“I feel like that’s a trick question.”
“You’re going to drive away a huge amount of business. Get yourself a tablet and a card reader, pronto.”
He looks skeptical and I’m losing him fast. “Tablets and shit are expensive.”
I nod. “Yes, they are. Then you charge extra for rides on the hay wagon around the farm.”
He looks at me like I’ve just sprouted a pumpkin head on my shoulders. “I’m not giving rides on the hay wagon just for fun,” he says. Then he sees the look on my face. “Oh. OK. I guess I am if you think that’ll work.”
I chew on my bottom lip, trying to rein myself in. “I don’t mean to be so bossy, but this is a brand new business. And yeah, there will be some bugs to work out, but these kinds of businesses thrive by word of mouth. Moms meet each other at the coffee shop or the grocery store and they tell each other about where to take the kids for a hayride, drink cider and snap adorable photos of their babies sitting on top of old tractors decorated with cutesy autumn paraphernalia.”
He smirks. “They do, huh?”
“And I don’t want to overwhelm you, but if you have any gourds in unusual colors, like blue or white? You slap those together in a pretty arrangement and the bougie ladies of Instagram will pay big bucks.”
He laughs. “Big bucks for a fuckin’ tiny white pumpkin?”
“Yes,” I say. “It’ll pay for your tablet in a day. I promise you that.”
His grin is full of mischief. “Care to make a wager?”
“I thought this was a legit business, not a gambling house.”
Henry’s hands go up in a gesture of acquiescence. “If you don’t think you can sell an overpriced gourd, then just admit it.”
My jaw drops. What an ass. An ass in the most fun kind of way. Dammit, he’s making me more attracted to him by the second. “Oh, clearly you’re not on social media if you think those won’t sell.”
“I’m just saying, put your money where your mouth is.” If his crinkly eyes weren’t smiling at me, I might throw a rotten pumpkin at his ass.
“What are the stakes?” I ask, crossing my arms, waiting to hear what he has in mind. Please say I’ll have to go on a date with you if I lose, please, please, please say it.
“If you’re right, and I make enough money to buy myself a tablet and card reader in day one, then I’ll plant a whole acre of sunflowers to sell next year.”
“And if I lose?”
“If you lose then I’ll cook you dinner.”
I don’t see how I’m losing in either of these scenarios unless he plans to cook me liver and lima beans.
“No funny business, I promise,” he adds.
I shake my head. “I’ll agree to those terms but without the promises and swears. Be careful what you promise me, Henry.”
Chapter Six
Jane
The autumn afternoon sunshine casts a special light on a guy like Henry, especially when a guy like Henry decides to pull off his sweaty shirt and toss it aside while working close to me in the pumpkin patch. This, the sight of his glistening shoulders, chest—and yes, his just slightly soft middle—might be the thing that causes heat exhaustion. Not the sun.
On one hand, I know it’s so unprofessional to keep sneaking glances at him. But the way his muscles tighten when he lifts a 50-pounder onto the hay wagon makes me feel lightheaded. I want to call him an asshole for teasing me, for making me think filthy thoughts about what I’d like him to do to me. Tops on my fantasy list: drop that chilled-out dude act, haul me into the barn, toss me onto a pile of hay, and split me in half.
How can he be so calm? He knows he’s out here blessing my eyeballs with shoulders, biceps, and forearms sculpted in that special, rugged way that doesn’t come from hours at the gym. He’s not a gym rat; rather, he’s suntanned and strong like some kind of pumpkin god. Or a corn maze king.
On the other hand, maybe I don’t care that it’s unprofessional. Maybe fate brought us together, in which case it’s totally fine to have a crush on one’s boss.
Is it still unethical if it’s me pursuing him?
My god, I can’t imagine this scenario ever happening where I used to work. Sure there were tons of hot people wearing suits and skirts, doing very important and stressful things with other people’s money. Any relationships had to be reported to human resources.
As Henry said, there is no human resources office here in this two-person operation called Wood’s Pumpkin Patch.
And I don’t hate it.
We both knew what was going on when we first met. And we both know he gave me the job on the spot because he thinks I’m cute and he already likes my daughter.
I knew it, and he knew it.
I’ve known enough phonies in my life to know that Henry is not a phony.
Sarah’s dad was a phony. Generous on the outside, impressive in the way he charmed people and threw money around. But I learned he was very different deep down than he was on the outside.
Henry has simple needs. What you see is what you get. Not a conniving bone in his body.
Spending the day with him, not just ogling his sweaty chest—or staring at the way the drips find their way down to the waistband of his jeans—but getting to know him, has given me no hints of forced charm or ulterior motives.
By late
