Chapter 1
Autumn
The muted rumble of tires over loose stones shattered the serene stillness of the pumpkin patch.
Autumn peered up from her display of pumpkins, the sound pulling her focus toward the driveway.
A sleek black Tesla glided into view, its glossy finish catching the mid-morning sun and gleaming like a polished gemstone.
Straightening, Autumn wiped dirt-streaked hands on the thighs of her overalls. An October breeze tugged at the loose strands of her hair, making her aware of how messy she must look.
Autumn squinted, her breath puffing, and waited.The Tesla rolled to a smooth stop beside the old tractor, its quiet hum fading into silence. A tall figure stepped out with an air of effortless confidence. The sunlight glinted off his white-blond hair, and Autumn’s stomach tightened.
Graham Oakley.
Time stood still and her heart gave an involuntary lurch. Time seemed to fold in on itself.
Taller than she remembered, his posture straighter, there was no mistaking the crisp lines of his charcoal suit or the casual confidence he wore like a second skin.
Of course, it would be him driving a Tesla.
He looked the same, yet different. The boyish charm had faded, replaced by a man with a sharper, more commanding presence.
His tailored clothes hugged his frame, the crisp lines of the jacket accentuating his broad shoulders and long legs.
He moved with the quiet assurance of a man accustomed to being noticed; his polished shoes scuffed on the gravel as he stepped away from the car.
Against the farm’s rustic charm, he was as out of place as a chandelier in a chicken coop.
Her black-and-white pygmy goat lifted his head, his ears twitching.
His coat’s unique markings—a stark white “bow tie” against black fur—gave him the appearance of being perpetually dressed for a formal event.
“No, Mr. Buttercup. Stay,” Autumn murmured, shooting a glance at the mischievous animal a few feet away.
The goat’s attention locked onto Graham.
“Don’t even think about it,” she hissed, as if her words could deter the goat’s inevitable mischief.
Graham surveyed the pumpkin patch with a faint smile.
“We’re closed for lunch,” she called, but the bright red “Open” sign swayed gently in the breeze, betraying her.
His smile deepened, and he approached. “My dad mentioned you carry the best hay for Halloween displays. Thought I’d see for myself.”
Graham’s voice was as warm and rich as she remembered, but it was different now—a weight, a maturity that hadn’t been there before.
Her fingers curled around a pumpkin’s stem. A decade had passed since Graham abandoned their relationship, yet the sight of him stirred a deep, unsteady pull within her—a mix of nostalgia and unease.
Dirt clung to her nails, and she adjusted the straps of her overalls, suddenly self-conscious of her appearance again. A blush crept into her cheeks . . . she probably looked every bit the part of the messy farm girl she was.
What on earth is he doing here? And why now, after all this time?
As Autumn gathered herself again, a low bleat broke the silence. She turned to see Mr. Buttercup trotting toward Graham, his black-and-white coat gleaming. The goat’s tail flicked in what might have been mistaken for a friendly greeting, but Autumn recognized the mischief in his step.
“No, Mr. Buttercup. Stay.”
The goat ignored her. His little hooves tapped against the ground as he closed the distance with alarming speed. Autumn’s gut churned. This would not end well.
“Friendly little guy, isn’t he?” Crouching, Graham reached out a hand, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.
“Wait, don’t—” Autumn’s words came too late.
In one swift, practiced motion, Mr. Buttercup had lunged, clamping his teeth onto the edge of Graham’s sleeve.
The sharp sound of fabric tearing pierced the air, followed by a startled yelp as Graham stumbled backward.
His feet slid out from under him on the loose rocks, sending him sprawling into a nearby pile of pumpkins.
“Mr. Buttercup!” Autumn shouted, rushing forward. “Let go of that!”
With a triumphant bleat, the goat pranced away, his head bobbing with each step as though leading a parade for one.
Graham sat up slowly, brushing dirt off his pants. Dust and hay speckled his once-pristine suit, and his tie hung askew. He glanced down at his jacket—or what was left of it—and let out a dry laugh.
“That was a three-thousand-dollar Armani jacket.” His mouth twitched into a smirk, though his eyes betrayed a mix of disbelief and resignation.
Autumn froze mid step. “Three thousand dollars?” she shrieked. “Who spends three thousand dollars on a jacket?” The question slipped out before she could stop it, and her cheeks flushed.
She now hurried toward him, the clip of her boots muffled by scattered hay. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for it,” she responded quickly, though the thought made her insides twist. Three thousand dollars could cover an entire season’s worth of supplies.
“Don’t worry about it.” Graham waved her off and climbed to his feet. He rose smoothly and picked hay from his sleeve. “I’ve dealt with worse.”
She glanced toward the barn and the mangled sleeve still clutched within the goat’s mouth.
“I’m serious,” Autumn insisted. “Mr. Buttercup has a habit of destroying expensive things. Last week, he ate Mrs. Davidson’s designer purse. I’ll find a way to replace it.”
Graham’s lips quirked into a half-smile, his blue eyes glinting with amusement. “Still naming animals after flowers.”
Crossing her arms, Autumn ignored the heat creeping up her neck. “He came with the name,” she muttered. “Grandmother’s last addition to the farm before she . . .” Her voice faltered, and she swallowed hard. “Before she passed.”
The playful light in Graham’s expression dimmed. “I heard about your grandmother. I should’ve reached out. I’m sorry.”
Autumn shrugged, her gaze fixed on the ground. “It was five years ago. I’m fine.”
A heavy silence followed, the kind that seemed to stretch endlessly. Autumn shifted and glanced toward the goat still chewing on the sleeve with exaggerated enthusiasm.
“Mr. Buttercup!” she snapped. “Drop it!”
The goat bleated innocently, his ears twitching as though he hadn’t just caused hundreds—no, thousands—of dollars in damage. Autumn sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I swear, that goat is going to be the death of me.”
Graham chuckled, low and warm. “He’s got character, I’ll give him that.”
She shot him a withering look, but the corners of her mouth twitched despite herself. “Character won’t pay for your jacket.”
Eager to move on, she spun toward the barn and gestured to the towering hay bales under the overhang next to the barn. “How much hay do you need?” she asked briskly. The earthy dried grass mingled with the sweetness of ripening pumpkins, grounded her as she shook the tension from her shoulders.
“Four bales should do it,” Graham replied, following a few steps behind her. She felt his stare as if he was following her every movement with his eyes. “My pops is trying to make the store more seasonal. He thinks the hay will give it rustic charm.”
Autumn raised an eyebrow. “Rustic charm? In your dad’s hardware store?”
Graham chuckled, rich and unapologetically. “I know, right? He’s been on this kick lately—wants to bring in more foot traffic by making the place feel ‘festive.’ Apparently, Pinterest is to blame.”
The mention of Pinterest drew a reluctant smile from Autumn. “So, he’s really joined the modern age?”
“Something like that.” Graham shoved his hands into his pockets. “Though I’m pretty sure he still doesn’t know how to use the app. He just shows me pictures and tells me to ‘make it happen.’”
She snorted, fiddling with the coarse twine binding the hay bales. “Sounds about right.” She paused, glancing at the Tesla parked nearby. “But I have to ask: how were you planning to transport four bales of hay in that?”
Following her line of sight, his eyes landed on his car. “You know. I didn’t really think that part through.”
A genuine laugh burst from Autumn, catching her off guard. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but the sound echoed across the field, drawing a bleat of curiosity from Mr. Buttercup. When she peered back at Graham and he beamed in a way that made her chest ache with familiarity.
“Not your most practical decision.” She lowered her hand.
“I’ll admit, it’s not my best work. Though I wasn’t exactly expecting to find myself in the middle of a pumpkin patch this morning.”
“Yeah, well, life’s full of surprises,” Autumn muttered, turning back to the hay. She grabbed a bale and hefted it onto the small handcart nearby, the muscles in her arms straining with the effort. “I’ll have Tommy deliver them to the store. No charge, considering what my goat did to your jacket.”
“Autumn, you don’t have to—”
“I insist.” She didn’t look at him as she moved to grab another bale. “It’s the least I can do.”
For a moment, Graham said nothing. Autumn could feel his eyes on her, like the warmth of an evening fire. A beat later, he spoke, his voice quieter now. “You’ve done a lot with this place.”
Her hands stilled on the twine of the third hay bale. The unexpected compliment sent a ripple through her, but she pushed it aside. “It’s nothing special,” she said, straightening. “Just keeping things afloat. I know it’s not fancy.”
“It’s more than that,” Graham replied, stepping closer. His glance swept over the rows of healthy pumpkins in the ground, the neatly stacked hay bales, the colorful beds of thriving mums lining the barn’s entrance. “Grandmother Piper would’ve been proud.”
Autumn’s breath hitched when Graham uttered the word: grandmother. She fumbled for a knot on the final bale that was already tied. She blinked rapidly. “Thanks.”
“I mean it,” Graham continued, his tone earnest. “She always talked about how much she loved this place. How much she believed in you.”