4. Emma
Emma
M y phone alarm blares, jolting me from sleep. My heart pounds against my ribs as I bolt upright, disoriented. For a terrifying moment, I don’t know where I am.
Then yesterday rushes back.
Autumn Falls. Harvest Home Farm. The pumpkin patch job.
My purple dildo in a goat’s mouth.
I groan and flop back onto the pillow, throwing my arm over my eyes. “Perfect first impression, Emma. Just perfect.”
I allow myself exactly thirty seconds of mortification before pushing it aside. I can’t change yesterday, but I can control today.
My morning routine is a ritual I never deviate from. Safety lies in consistency.
Suppressant
Plain oversized clothing
And now, a patch covered by my scarf
I swallow my suppressant with a full glass of water, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste that lingers no matter how quickly I drink.
I dress in a pair of shapeless jeans and an oversized cozy sweater from the secondhand store.
Next comes the scent patch, carefully positioned over the scent gland on my neck.
I smooth it down, ensuring the edges properly adhere to my skin.
I add an extra one to ensure no lingering scent can escape and cover them with a navy scarf.
The patches are expensive—a significant chunk of my monthly savings—but they’re non-negotiable.
I do not want a repeat of yesterday.
I pull my long, wavy, brown hair back into a low ponytail; practical but forgettable. Nothing that draws attention.
I brush my teeth, splash cold water on my face, and apply balm.
No makeup—the bruises on my face have fully faded now.
Unmemorable.
Outside, the morning air carries a chill that hints at the coming fall; dew sparkles on the grass, and mist clings to the distant tree line. In this gentle light, the farm looks different, like a picture in a children’s book about idyllic country life.
Walking, I take mental notes for potential social media content: the pumpkin field with the sun rising behind it, the charming weathervane atop the red barn, and the vintage tractor parked near the corn maze entrance.
This place is practically designed for Instagram—an authentic farm aesthetic without trying too hard.
The farmhouse door is unlocked. I hesitate before pushing it open, listening for voices.
“Deep breaths.” Normal people don’t stand outside doors for five minutes, working up the courage to enter.
I push the door open and step inside, relieved that yesterday’s burnt sugar and cinnamon are barely detectable.
The extra patch works beautifully—my omega senses stay quiet, and there are no tingles or urges—just bland scent awareness, exactly how I need it.
Still, one mouthwatering smell pulls me toward the kitchen: coffee and something sweet, buttery, impossible to ignore.
Theo stands at the counter, whisking something in a bowl, while Rowan sits at the island with a laptop open.
“Good morning!” Theo calls cheerfully when he spots me hovering in the doorway. “Coffee’s fresh, help yourself. Scones are about five minutes from being ready.”
“You bake?” I blurt out.
Theo grins, gesturing to himself with the whisk. “Man of many talents. Baking, event planning, and karaoke champion three years running.”
Rowan gives me a quick nod before his attention returns to his laptop with a slight shake of his head. “You won once. The other two years, everyone was too polite to tell you that you came in third.”
“Details,” Theo waves dismissively.
I pour myself coffee from the carafe, adding milk from the ceramic pitcher on the counter. The domesticity of the scene makes something twist in my chest; a longing I don’t allow myself to examine too closely.
“Liam already ate and headed out,” Theo explains. “He’s up with the sun most days.”
I nod, grateful for the information—one less person to navigate this morning.
“So,” Rowan says, finally closing his laptop and looking at me. “Ready to assess the damage to our online reputation?”
His tone is dry, but his expression is almost playful. It transforms his face, softening the hard lines around his mouth.
“I did some preliminary research last night,” I admit, cradling my coffee cup. “Your Instagram account has seventeen followers.”
“Told you,” Theo says triumphantly to Rowan. “And fourteen of them are—”
“Your former classmates, we know,” Rowan finishes with a playful roll of his eyes.
I take a careful sip of coffee. “Your website is… functional, but not optimized for mobile, which is how most people will access it when looking for seasonal activities. And you don’t have a TikTok account, which could help create a lot of buzz.”
Theo points his whisk at Rowan. “See? I’ve been saying this for months.”
Rowan raises his hands in surrender. “I never disagreed. I just said neither of us had time to manage it properly, which is why Emma is here.”
The oven’s timer beeps, and Theo pulls out a tray of golden scones, filling the kitchen with the scent of butter and strawberries, and places them on a cooling rack.
“These need five minutes,” he announces. “In the meantime, Emma, tell us your grand vision for making Harvest Home Farm the most Instagram-worthy pumpkin patch in three counties.”
Put on the spot, I take a steadying breath. This, at least, is familiar territory. Despite not wanting to stand out personally, I know how to create attention-grabbing media for this business.
“You have all the elements already,” I explain. “The aesthetic is perfect; authentic but still photogenic. You need consistent content across platforms with a cohesive visual identity. Posts that highlight both the products and the experience you’re selling.”
“The experience,” Theo echoes, nodding enthusiastically, a grin lighting up his features. “Yes, exactly. It’s not just pumpkins, it’s—”
“Autumn memories,” I finish. “Family traditions. The perfect fall day.”
Rowan watches this exchange with a thoughtful expression. “And you think you can translate that into sales?”
“I know I can,” I say confidently. “It’s what I did before—” I stop abruptly, not wanting to reveal my past.
“Before?” Rowan prompts, his eyes sharp.
“Before coming here,” I amend smoothly. “I’ve managed social media for small businesses, as mentioned in our Zoom call.”
My advertising agency job in the city included social media management for several major clients. I just left out the part about the prestigious marketing firm, the rising career I abandoned, and the alpha who had tried to forcibly bond me, causing me to flee from it all.
Theo slides a warm scone onto a plate and pushes it toward me. “Well, we’re lucky to have you. Rowan set up a desk for you in the sunroom. It has the best light and a view of the pumpkin fields.”
I’d assumed that I’d be working from my cottage. The idea of spending hours in the farmhouse near these males had never crossed my mind.
Theo must see my surprise, because he adds, “You can work wherever, honestly. But the Wi-Fi at the cottage is not always reliable. But seriously, no pressure. We just wanted you to have options.”
I follow Theo through the house to a charming sunroom at the back. Large windows look out over the pumpkin fields and the apple orchard beyond them. A small desk, with a comfortable chair and a power strip for my laptop, has been positioned to take advantage of the view.
“Will this work?” Theo asks, suddenly sounding uncertain. “We can find another space if—”
“It’s perfect,” I assure him, and I mean it. The sunlight, the view, and the slight removal from the central part of the house—I couldn’t have designed a better workspace myself.
“Great!” His smile returns full force. “I’ll leave you to it, then.
I’ve got to finish setting up for a corporate team-building thing we’re hosting this weekend.
But I’m around if you need anything—supplies, snacks, more scones, whatever; just shout.
Rowan is usually glued to his laptop until noon, but I’m in and out, and so is Liam. ”
I set my bag on the desk and pull out my laptop. “Thanks, Theo. I… really appreciate it. All of it.”
Left alone, I set up my laptop and organize my notes.
The task ahead is substantial but straightforward: evaluate their online presence, develop a content strategy, create a posting schedule, and generate content immediately.
The farm opens to the public in less than two weeks, so I must build momentum now.
I lose myself in the work, and by mid-morning, I’ve drafted a content calendar and style guide.
Stretching, I decide to take a walk around the property to shoot some photos for upcoming posts.
The morning has transformed into a clear day, perfect for photography.
I grab my phone—not the professional camera I once owned and sold for emergency money, but good enough for social media content—and head outside.
The farm is more active now than when I arrived yesterday. Several workers are checking vines and culling damaged fruit in the pumpkin fields. Others are constructing the stand and maze and assembling other elements. I keep my distance, shooting wide landscape shots and close-ups of pumpkins.
I’m crouching to capture a particularly photogenic row of pumpkins when I hear the now-familiar bleating. Turning, I see Maple trotting toward me, her white coat bright in the sunlight.
“Hello again, troublemaker,” I say as she reaches me, butting her head against my hip hard enough that I have to brace myself to avoid toppling over. “Persistent, aren’t you?”
She bleats as if in agreement, then stands beside me, watching expectantly.
“I don’t have any treats for you,” I tell her, but I can’t resist stroking her head. Her fur is slightly bristled but soft, and she leans into my touch with such obvious pleasure that I find myself smiling.
“She found you again.”