Chapter Four | Gus
Chapter Four
Gus
Bad idea, Ramsey.
I changed out of my chef's whites into clean jeans and a charcoal gray Henley, then grabbed my leather jacket.
When I came downstairs, Sam was waiting by the front door in dark jeans tucked into boots and a rust-colored sweater that brought out the gold in her eyes.
She'd left her hair down. The afternoon light from the windows caught the auburn highlights.
My pulse kicked up at the sight of her.
"Ready?" I grabbed my truck keys from the hook by the door.
"Ready." That same plaid scarf from this morning was wrapped around her neck.
The drive to Cullen's Pumpkin Patch took twenty minutes, winding through mountain roads that showed off Montana's October glory.
I pointed out landmarks along the way—the turn-off to the hot springs, the trail that led to Wintervale Falls, the overlook where you could see three states on a clear day.
"You really love it here," Sam observed, thoughtful rather than judgmental.
"Wasn't expecting to," I admitted. "When Rory offered me the position, I just needed somewhere to disappear for a while. Figured I'd stay a few months, get my head together, move on. But Wintervale has a way of getting under your skin."
"I can see that." She gazed out the window at the passing scenery. "It's the kind of place people dream about when they're stuck in traffic in Denver."
"You ever think about leaving the city?"
She was quiet for a moment. "Sometimes. But my business is there, and most of my clients. Everything I've built."
"What made you want to be a wedding planner?"
Her laugh was quiet, almost sad. "It actually started with my parents' divorce.
I was twelve, and everything fell apart so fast. One day we were a normal family, the next my dad was moving out and my mom was crying all the time.
I became obsessed with the idea of happy celebrations, perfect moments that couldn't be ruined.
If I could just make everything beautiful, then people would be happy. They'd stay."
The vulnerability in her voice hit me harder than it should have. "That's a hell of a burden for a kid."
"Yeah, well." She shrugged, but I could see the tension in her shoulders. "It worked out, I guess. Built a successful business out of my neuroses."
"Sam—"
"We're here," she interrupted, and I let her change the subject, filing away this new piece of information about what drove her need for control.
Cullen's Pumpkin Patch sprawled across rolling fields, pumpkins of every size and color dotting the landscape like scattered jewels.
Families wandered between the rows, children shrieking with excitement.
A massive red barn served as the main building, with a sign advertising hayrides, corn maze, and hot cider.
Cornstalks tied with orange ribbon framed the entrance, and scarecrows with friendly faces stood guard.
"This is amazing," Sam breathed, taking in the scene.
"Wait until you see the pumpkins." I opened her door before she could reach for the handle. "Cullen grows some monsters. I heard last year he had one that weighed over eight hundred pounds."
"What do you even do with an eight-hundred-pound pumpkin?"
"Right? That would be a lot of pies," I chuckled.
We paid our admission and joined the line for the hayride out to the patch. The air smelled different out here than at the orchard—earthier, with notes of dried grass and that particular autumn scent of frost-kissed dirt. The kind of smells that made you understand why people loved this season.
The tractor pulling the wagon was decorated with red and orange garlands, and the wagon bed was filled with hay bales arranged as seats. As more people climbed aboard, we ended up sharing a bale near the back.
"Cozy," Sam said, her voice slightly breathless as her thigh pressed to mine.
"Yeah." I kept my eyes forward, trying to ignore how perfectly she fit against my side.
The wagon lurched forward, and she grabbed my arm to steady herself, fingers wrapping around my bicep. Even through my jacket and shirt, I felt the touch burn through fabric.
Every bump in the field jostled us closer together. The sun found the highlights in her hair—amber shades I hadn't noticed before. When she tilted her head back to laugh at something a kid said behind us, I had to physically stop myself from tucking a strand behind her ear.
She was just the right height to tuck under my arm, her head reaching just past my shoulder. If I pulled her closer, she'd fit right against my chest. The thought hit hard and wouldn't let go.
Stop it, I told myself. She's leaving in a week. She's a client. She's wrapped in cashmere and control issues.
But when she leaned into me slightly as the wagon hit a particularly rough patch, smiling up at me with genuine happiness in her expression, I couldn't remember why any of those reasons mattered.
The wagon pulled to a stop at the edge of the pumpkin field, and we climbed down. Sam immediately spotted something behind me, her face lighting up with mischief I hadn't seen before.
"What—" I started to ask, but she grabbed my hand and pulled me toward a massive pile of raked leaves.
"Come on!" she called over her shoulder, and before I could process what was happening, she jumped, dragging me with her.
We landed hard, the pile deeper than it looked.
I'd managed to twist mid-fall, but Sam still ended up half sprawled across me, warm and solid against my chest. Leaves stuck to her hair, her sweater, showered down around us.
Her laughter rang out, and I laughed too—actual laughter, not the polite chuckle I'd been giving everyone since San Francisco.
"I can't believe you just did that," I said when I could breathe again.
She'd propped herself up on one elbow, grinning down at me with leaves stuck everywhere. "Neither can I. I don't know what's wrong with me."
I reached up to pluck a maple leaf free, and her smile softened. Our eyes met, and the laughter died. She was close enough that I could count the freckles scattered across her nose, see the flecks of gold in her eyes.
"Sorry!" A kid's voice broke the spell as someone jumped into the pile near us, sending up another shower of leaves.
We scrambled apart, both of us breathing hard. Her face was red, and she brushed leaves from her sweater, not quite meeting my gaze.
"That was fun," she said, her voice slightly breathless.
"Yeah." I stood and offered her my hand. She took it, and I pulled her to her feet, letting go as soon as she was steady. "Didn't expect you to have that in you."
"Neither did I, honestly." She picked more leaves from her hair, her smile hesitant. "Guess I needed it more than I realized."
As we walked toward the field, I studied her from the corner of my eye.
Rory and Cass had been right—she'd needed to remember there was more to life than work.
Seeing her like this, relaxed and genuinely happy, made me wonder how much of herself she'd buried.
The divorce explained the control issues, the obsession with creating perfect moments.
But what else had shaped her? What had made her forget simple, unchoreographed joys like jumping into leaf piles?
"So how do you pick the perfect pumpkin?" she asked, pulling me from my thoughts.
"Depends on what you want it for." I crouched beside one of the large gourds, running my hand over its surface. "For carving, you want a firm stem—that's the handle. Smooth, unblemished skin. Flat bottom so it sits steady. For cooking, different story—smaller, sweeter varieties."
"And for decoration?"
"Then it's all about aesthetics." I stood and gestured to the field. "Shape, color, how it'll look in your overall design."
We spent the next hour wandering the field, loading pumpkins into a small cart the farm provided for hauling, and I enjoyed myself more than I'd expected.
Sam approached pumpkin selection with the same intensity she brought to everything else, evaluating the pros and cons of each one like it was a critical business decision.
But there was joy in it too, the kind of enthusiasm people usually reserved for childhood activities they'd forgotten as adults.
"This one," she declared, pointing to a medium-sized gourd with a perfect stem and vibrant hue. "For the entryway."
"Good choice. What about that one?" I nodded toward a tall, narrow pumpkin with unusual ridges.
"Ooh, interesting. For the dining room mantel?"
"See? You're getting the hang of it."
She bent to examine another one, and I took the opportunity to study her properly. The way she bit her lower lip when concentrating. The unconscious grace in her movements. The fact that she'd forgotten about her phone again—I could see it in her jacket pocket, thankfully silent and ignored.
"Tell me something," I said as we added several more to our cart. "How does someone who loves autumn festivals this much end up spending all her time behind a desk?"
She was quiet for a moment, straightening to meet my gaze.
"My ex-fiancé, actually. He was in finance, all about climbing the corporate ladder.
Started making comments about my work being frivolous, about how I spent too much time on 'other people's happiness' instead of focusing on our future.
I guess I started believing him. After he left me for a client two years ago, I doubled down on work.
Figured if I just succeeded enough, proved myself enough, then—" She stopped, shaking her head.
"Sorry. That was a lot of information you didn't ask for. "
"No, I—" I wanted to tell her I understood. That I knew what it was like to lose yourself trying to prove something to someone who didn't deserve the effort. But before I could find the words, she turned away.