Pumpkin Patch Pack

1. Emma

Emma

T he rearview mirror shows nothing but an empty road behind me, but I check it anyway.

Again.

Like I have every five minutes since I’ve left the motel.

The “Welcome to Autumn Falls” sign appears suddenly around a curve in the road. Its weathered wood is painted with cheerful orange and red leaves, some of the paint chipping away at the edges.

I ease my foot off the gas, my old, rusted car chugging in protest as I slow to the posted twenty-five miles per hour.

Slow is good. Small is good. Forgotten is best.

A place where no one knows my name or my past.

My fingers tap nervously against the steering wheel, a rhythm that matches my heartbeat; fast and loud. The leather covering is worn thin where countless previous owners have gripped it, and I wonder briefly if any of them were running too.

I drive through what passes as downtown, a strip of quaint storefronts with hand-painted signs.

A café with checkered curtains has a chalkboard sign advertising Pumpkin Spice Lattes.

A cute boutique displays knitted scarves in its window, and a hardware store that looks like it hasn’t changed since the 1950s.

No one glances twice at my car, a beat-up 2002 Honda Accord.

The relief is so potent that my eyes sting, and I blink rapidly.

“You’re fine,” I tell myself, a habit I’ve developed over the past 5 months of solitude. “Just another face in the crowd. Just another stranger drifting past.”

Except I’m not passing through. I’m staying, at least for the harvest season.

For the next three months, I’ll be running the social media for Harvest Home Farm , a job I secured through a spotty Zoom interview in which I kept my camera angled to hide the bruise still healing on my cheek.

Three more months to breathe; to plan and decide if I need to run further or if this tiny speck on the map might actually be far enough away.

The GPS on my phone directs me to take a right onto a narrow road that winds up a gentle slope. The pavement gives way to gravel, and tall trees form a canopy overhead, their leaves just beginning to turn gold at the edges.

The air from my cracked window smells different here; earthy and clean, with none of the city’s pollution.

After a mile of forest, the trees part to reveal what can only be Harvest Home Farm spread across the hillside before me.

Rows of pumpkins dot the nearest field, their orange vivid against the dark soil.

Beyond them, an orchard stretches toward the horizon, and to the right stands a large red barn with white trim that looks like it belongs on a postcard.

A beautiful farmhouse, larger than I expected, sits at the center of it all, its wide porch wrapping around at least two sides.

Several smaller buildings cluster nearby: outbuildings, a farm stand, and what appear to be small cottages set back near the tree line. According to the email instructions, one of these will be mine.

I pull into the gravel lot where a hand-painted sign reads “Visitor Parking” and cut the engine.

I hear birds calling to each other, a tractor’s distant hum, and leaves’ soft rustling. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a reminder that I’ve made it this far.

I check my reflection in the rearview mirror, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. I look thinner. My eyes are too large in my face now. They stare back with a wariness that never used to be there.

I ensure my scent patch is securely in place on my neck, pressing the edges down with my fingertips. Before leaving the motel, I took my morning dose of hormone suppressants; they do a good job of both blocking my scent and my ability to pick up on scents, but the patches offer insurance.

I wrap a light scarf around my neck to hide the patch.

Because nothing screams I’m definitely an omega , quite like visible scent-blocking patches.

With the suppressants and patch working together, I’m like any other beta female.

My scent should be masked entirely to alphas; theirs won’t affect me either.

Win-win.

Being an unbonded omega can be dangerous, even without the added complications of my past. When alphas catch the scent, it can easily send them into a rut. And the last thing I need right now is that kind of attention, especially when it comes with possessive, growling alphaholes.

“You can do this. Just be forgettable. Do your job. Stay quiet.”

I check my phone; my battery is at 3%, and my anxiety is at DEFCON one.

The screen flickers as I pull up the email with instructions to meet Rowan at the main house.

I should have charged it last night, but the motel’s only outlet was across the room, and I couldn’t sleep without it next to me under my pillow, along with my Alpha-Away spray. I manage to open the email file as my screen goes black.

Well, I guess I’d better find my new boss.

The slam of my car door echoes across the parking lot. I smooth down my oversized sweater, another layer of protection hiding my thinning shape. Being on the run has meant keeping a roof over my head for as long as possible and thinking about food later.

I head toward the farmhouse, each step kicking up little clouds of dust that settle on my worn-out sneakers.

As I approach the porch steps, movement catches my eye—a flash of white from behind a barrel of apples. I freeze, my heart pounding in my ears, fingers tightening on the strap of my bag, already searching for my Alpha-Away spray, eyes searching the growing shadows.

But it’s not a person.

It’s an animal.

A small one with white fluffy hair and a pink collar, its rectangular pupils fixed on me. My breathing evens out, and the panic ebbs as I realize I am looking at a goat.

“Hey there, cutie pie,” I say, my voice rusty from disuse. My grip on my bag loosens as I take in the sweet little creature on the porch.

The goat steps closer, its tiny hooves clicking on the wooden deck. It tilts its head as if assessing me, and lets out a bleat that sounds almost like a greeting. Then, darting away, it disappears around the corner of the house with surprising speed for something so small.

“You’ve got this,” I give myself one last pep talk. “Just smile, nod, and don’t say anything weird”.

“Hello?” I call out.

The screen door swings open before I can knock, and a man fills the doorframe so entirely that I instinctively step back, my hand darting into my bag.

He’s more handsome than I remembered from our video call, and taller than I expected too, not that I could tell when he was sitting down.

He has broad shoulders and cropped dirty blond hair.

His expression is serious, almost stern, and he’s wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal golden forearms corded with muscle.

I catch the briefest whiff of sweetness coming from him, even through my suppressants, and I praise myself for adding the patch. It was obviously necessary.

Rowan. The alpha co-owner of Harvest Home Farm .

His nostrils flare, a common alpha reaction when meeting someone new, but his expression doesn’t change. If he can smell anything beyond “generic beta female,” he doesn’t show it.

“Emma,” he says, his voice deep and rumbling. “You found us alright.”

It’s not a question, but I nod anyway, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my sweater. “The directions were good.”

His light brown eyes, which remind me of maple syrup, scan over me quickly and clinically. I resist the urge to hunch my shoulders or squirm. Showing weakness around alphas only encourages them to push boundaries.

“You’re earlier than I expected,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. “The cottage’s ready, though.”

I hesitate before crossing the threshold into his territory. Every omega instinct screams caution around unfamiliar alphas, but I’ve gotten good at ignoring those instincts.

The farmhouse interior is unexpectedly modern. It is open-concept, with wooden beams overhead, a large kitchen with granite countertops, and comfortable-looking furniture around a stone fireplace.

His scent is stronger inside: a faint burnt sugar threaded with musk mixed with something warm like cinnamon and vanilla. It feels comforting, inviting, and unexpected, like stepping into a kitchen where someone’s been baking all afternoon.

Taking a deep breath is a mistake. The sweet spiced warmth curls through me like a blanket from the dryer, coaxing my inner omega to stir when she should be silent.

This shouldn’t be happening. Not with the suppressants in my system. They should block this reaction completely, not just dampen it. Instead, I catalog every note like I’m some scent sommelier.

I haven’t had this kind of reaction since… well, ever.

I clench my fists, trying to focus on the pain of my nails digging into my palms, instead of my body’s traitorous reaction to this sweet-smelling alpha male.

Every omega wanting to join the regular workforce must take extra-strength suppressants—federal law, for "our protection." I’ve been on the maximum legal dose for years, ever since I landed my first job. Before that, I’d taken the regular strength ones since my omega designation manifested at fifteen.

Most omegas will go off of them occasionally for their heats, but I’ve always been more focused on my career; not many omegas make it to my level in the workforce before they pack up and start families.

Since fleeing the city, I’ve added the scent patch to my regimen for extra security and sanity.

I don’t need anyone figuring out my designation or identity, lest it get back to him.

The combination should make me virtually undetectable and immune to alpha pheromones.

But right now, with Rowan standing so close, my body is responding in ways it shouldn’t.

Only a dominant alpha could have such a potent scent. That or my anxiety must be affecting the suppressants’ effectiveness. Stress hormones can do that; it was in the fine print of the medication pamphlet I’d memorized.

I’ll need to add a second patch tomorrow.