12. Emma
Emma
O pening day dawns bright and clear, as if autumn is making a grand entrance for the occasion.
I swallow two suppressants with my morning coffee, double the recommended dose, ignoring the warning on the bottle about potential side effects. Nausea, headaches, and dizziness are a small price for security.
But they are working.
My scent is back to normal. After yesterday’s close calls, I can’t take any chances.
I rifle through my small wardrobe, settling on a loose-fitting gray hoodie two sizes too big, a pair of faded jeans, and my most comfortable sneakers in case I need to move quickly.
I tie my hair back in a ponytail and avoid any makeup that might draw attention.
The scarf around my neck covers my patches completely while appearing like a casual fashion choice.
Nothing about me should stand out in a crowd.
Today will bring dozens, maybe hundreds of visitors to the farm.
Strangers.
Alphas.
The thought alone makes my pulse quicken, but I push down the anxiety. I have a job to do. Besides, I’ve cataloged exit routes and calculated how long it would take to reach my cottage from various points on the property.
My strategy is simple: document from the periphery.
I’ll stick to the edges of crowds, capture candids from a distance, and avoid lingering anywhere too long. When groups get thick, I’ll focus on the outskirts or find elevated positions to shoot from. If an unwanted alpha approaches, I have my Alpha-Away spray in my pocket, ready to deploy.
My phone buzzes with a text from Theo: “It’s showtime! First cars pulling in!”
I grab my phone and take a deep breath.
I can do this. Just fade into the background and do my job.
By ten o’clock, the parking lot is already half full.
Families with excited children, couples holding hands, and groups of friends with pumpkin spice lattes clutched in their hands stream through the entrance, where Theo has set up a welcoming arch of corn stalks and fairy lights.
The transformation of Harvest Home from working farm to autumn wonderland is complete, and seeing it through the visitors’ eyes makes me appreciate anew how magical this place is.
I position myself behind a large oak tree, my phone camera ready to capture candid moments for social media.
I see a little girl’s delight meeting Buttercup the pony, a couple stealing a kiss by the pumpkin display, and a group of friends posing with apple cider and donuts.
Each image tells a story of autumn memories being made, exactly as I promised.
The farm’s new Instagram story is already gathering views.
It features real-time updates showing the day’s activities tagged with carefully chosen hashtags that will expand our reach.
I move through the crowds, capturing moments without becoming part of them.
It’s a skill I’ve perfected—being present but not noticeable, documenting without participating.
Near the cider press, Theo holds court, demonstrating how apples become the sweet, spiced drink everyone clutches in their distinctive Harvest Home Farm cups.
He’s in his element—charming and enthusiastic, he makes each visitor feel like they’re getting a personal experience rather than a rehearsed demonstration.
“The secret,” he’s telling a captivated audience, “is in the blend of apples. You need something tart, like a Granny Smith, to balance the sweetness of the Honeycrisp.” He winks at a woman in the front row who giggles in response. “It’s all about finding the perfect balance.”
I snap a photo of him mid-explanation, his hands animated, his smile bright, apple chunks and cider flying. It’s a perfect shot—authentic, engaging, precisely the kind of content that performs well.
As I lower my phone, I catch Theo’s eye across the crowd. His smile shifts, becoming something more personal, just for me. He raises his cider mug in a small toast, and I smile back.
Moving quickly, I head toward the farm stand where Rowan oversees operations.
Unlike Theo’s performance, Rowan’s presence is understated but unmistakable.
He resolves a pricing question, directs a new employee, and checks inventory.
He’s dressed in dark jeans, a shirt with a sweater over it, rolled up at the elbow, and work boots—simple but attractive.
I’m not the only one watching; several women nearby have paused their shopping to track his movements, their interest obvious.
A spike of jealousy catches me off guard, and I push it down. I have no claim on Rowan or right to feel anything about who watches him or why.
What am I thinking? He’s my boss.
The rational part of my brain is screaming at me to get it together, but my body isn’t listening. The jealousy twists in my chest, hot and sharp beneath my ribs. My fingers tingle with the urge to move, to step between Rowan and whoever is watching him with those appreciative eyes.
I shift my weight, suddenly too aware of the distance between us.
Twenty steps.
That’s all it would take to be at his side, to stand close enough that everyone would know… what exactly?
He looks up suddenly, as if sensing my gaze, and our eyes lock. His nostrils flare slightly, his posture straightening. I reluctantly break the connection, pretending to check something on my phone.
What is wrong with me?
This possessive reaction is entirely inappropriate. I’ve never felt this way before… this primal, almost territorial instinct.
It’s embarrassing. Unprofessional.
Get it together, Emma.
I take a deep breath and refocus on visitors and families with wagons full of pumpkins, teenagers posing for selfies by the corn maze entrance, elderly couples wrapped in plaid blankets sharing caramel apples on hay bales, and the sticky-sweet smell that carries on the breeze.
I’m crouched behind a display of gourds, trying to get an artistic shot of children selecting pumpkins, when I see him through my phone’s camera.
My phone slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers, and for a second, I’m back in the city, backed against a wall with Marcus’s hand around my throat. The noise of my phone hitting the ground snaps me back, and I begin to breathe again.
He’s still there, though, standing across the crowded farm grounds.
He hasn’t seen me yet, too busy flirting with the teenage girl working the register. But he will, even though my hair is not styled and my clothes are stripped down to forgettable, two sizes too big.
He’d recognize me.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I duck lower behind the display. Think, Emma, think. I could slip away, hide in my cottage until he leaves. But that would mean abandoning my job on opening day, leaving the documentation incomplete.
“Emma?”
I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of my name, thumb ready to blast some Alpha-Away.
Theo appears beside me, his features creasing with concern as he takes in my crouched position and what must be a terrified expression. I tuck my spray back into my pocket, hoping he didn’t see the logo.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” He drops to a crouch beside me, keeping his usual respectful distance, his voice low. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
His mere presence makes my heart beat steady. I subtly lean into him, taking comfort in his cinnamon scent.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, but my voice shakes. “Just… getting a different angle for the shot.”
Theo’s eyes narrow, clearly not buying my excuse. My slight shift in posture has not lost his attention. His gaze sweeps the crowd as he searches for whatever threat has me spooked.
“That guy bothering you?” he asks quietly, nodding toward Marcus, who’s now sampling apple cider. “The one in the expensive jacket who looks like he’s never been on a farm?”
When I look again, he turns entirely around towards us.
It’s not Marcus—not him at all.
Fuck. I’m seeing things now.
Theo’s expression hardens at my silence, and a protective edge enters his voice that I’ve never heard before.
“Stay here,” he says. “I’ll handle this.”
“No!” I grab his arm before he can stand. “It’s not him. Sorry. I’m an idiot. I thought it was… someone else.”
Theo studies my face for a long moment, then nods. “I’ll get rid of him anyway, OK? Just take a break.”
He disappears into the crowd, and I watch as he approaches the man with his trademark charm turned to full wattage.
“Sir! Perfect timing!” Theo’s enthusiastic voice carries across the farm stand. You look like someone who appreciates quality. We’re offering an exclusive VIP tour of our apple orchard, only for our most discerning visitors. Would you like to join?”
The man preens at being singled out, his ego clearly flattered. Within minutes, Theo has shepherded him and several other visitors toward the far end of the property, away from where I’m hiding.
I go to the petting zoo area, seeking the one creature who won’t ask questions.
Maple spots me immediately, abandoning the children fawning over her to trot to the fence where I stand.
Her insistent bleating draws a watery laugh from me as I slip through the gate, finding a quiet corner behind the small shelter.
“Hey, troublemaker,” I whisper, sinking onto a hay bale.
Maple butts her head against my knee, then climbs awkwardly into my lap as if she were a much smaller animal. Her weight is comforting as I wrap my arms around her warm body, burying my face in her soft fur. She smells like sun-warmed hay.
“You’re too big for this,” I tell her, but make no move to push her away.
Maple responds by pressing closer, her steady heartbeat against mine, gradually slowing my racing pulse. I don’t know how long we sit there—me clinging to a goat like she’s a lifeline—Maple seemingly content to be my emotional support animal.
The panic recedes in gentle waves, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
“What am I doing here, Maple?” I murmur against her fur. “I can’t keep running forever.”
She bleats softly, as if in agreement.
Movement at the entrance to the petting zoo catches my eye. I tense, but it’s only a family with small children. From my hidden corner, I have a clear view of the main path and the man who looks like Marcus—but is not Marcus—who is now walking toward the parking lot with a woman on his arm.
“He’s gone,” I whisper to Maple, who bleats as if to say, “I told you so.”
I gently nudge her off my lap, brushing hay from my jeans as I stand. My legs feel steadier now, though the double dose of suppressants still makes the edges of my vision blur slightly when I move too quickly.
“Thanks for the therapy session,” I tell Maple, scratching behind her ears. “Your rates are very reasonable.”
A deep voice behind me nearly makes me jump out of my skin. “She prefers payment in apple slices.”
I whirl around to find Liam leaning against the shelter doorway, his large frame filling the space.
How long has he been there? Did he see my near-panic attack?
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I manage, aiming for casualness and probably missing by a mile.
Liam steps fully into the shelter, moving slowly in a way I’ve noticed he always does around me, like I’m a skittish animal he doesn’t want to startle. “You okay? Theo mentioned you might need help.”
So, Theo had sent Liam to check on me. The thought should annoy me, I don’t need minders, but instead, I find it oddly touching.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “Just needed a quiet moment. Opening day is a lot.”
Liam nods, studying me with an intensity that should make me uncomfortable but doesn’t. “It can be overwhelming,” he agrees. “All these strangers in our space.”
The way he says, “our space,” spreads warmth through my chest… a dangerous feeling of belonging that I can’t afford.
“I should get back,” I say, gesturing vaguely toward the crowds. “More content to capture.”
“You don’t have to. Theo’s got it covered if you need a break.”
The simple offer nearly undoes me. I’ve been so long without kindness that I hardly know how to receive it.
“I don’t want to shirk my responsibilities,” I protest weakly.
Liam shrugs those broad shoulders. “Taking care of yourself isn’t shirking. Besides,” he smiles, “Maple appreciates the company. She gets grumpy with all these strangers around.”
As if to emphasize his point, Maple looks up at me with those expressive eyes.
“Well, we can’t have a grumpy goat,” I concede, and am rewarded with one of Liam’s rare full smiles that transforms his entire face.
“I need to check on the ponies,” he says, backing toward the door. “But I’ll be around if you need anything.”
After he leaves, I sink back onto the hay bale, Maple climbing into my lap again. Through the shelter doorway, I can see the farm bustling with activity—families laughing, children running, the perfect picture of autumn joy they’ve worked so hard to create.
For the first time, I let myself imagine being part of it instead of just documenting from the sidelines.
“Just for today,” I whisper to Maple, who tilts her head like she’s considering whether this is a reasonable life goal. “Just for today, I’ll pretend I belong.”
She bleats, settling more comfortably against me, and I take that as her agreement.