Chapter 7
SEVEN
QUINN
Morning creeps in through the thin curtains in a way it only can in September.
Tricia’s hair is on my pillow. My arm is wrapped around her waist.
Her foot—bare, cold—rests on my calf like an anchor.
Her face, well, her face is fucking gorgeous in the cool light of dawn.
She hums when I shift closer.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs, voice still heavy with sleep.
“Guilty.”
She laughs against my chest, the sound small and soft. “You’re supposed to be the grump, not the charmer.”
“I’m a man of many talents.” I press a kiss to her shoulder. “Stay.”
She rolls over so we’re face-to-face. “I can’t. I need a shower, and you’ve got about a hundred things to fix around this place before we open tomorrow.”
Her smile tugs at one corner. “Besides, today’s your one day without customers. I don’t want to distract you.”
“You could,” I agree, trailing a fingertip down her spine, “in the best possible way.”
“Tempting.” She kisses me once more—quick and sweet—then sits up, clutching the sheet. “But if I don’t go home, my laptop won’t magically send out your marketing emails.”
I groan. “You and your emails.”
“Hey, they’re helping you.” She leans over, stealing one last kiss. “Want to pick up again tonight?”
“Tonight,” I promise.
We dress clumsily, stealing a kiss or five before either of us is in a state to leave the trailer.
Outside, the air smells clear and wet. I walk her to her car. Pumpkin trots ahead with his tail held high. The air is crisp enough that our breath fogs between us.
At the car, I push her back against it. Tilting her chin up, I kiss her again. Slow. Lazy.
The kind of kiss you give when you have all the time in the world. I wish we did.
She smiles against my mouth. “See you later, boss.”
“Hmm. Maybe don’t call me that when you’ve just left my bed.”
“Fine. See you later, Quinn.” She climbs into the driver’s seat, still smiling.
I don’t realize I’m wearing a matching smile until long after she’s driven away.
I try to work. I really do.
There’s always work to be done. A broken fence post near the hay maze. One of the apple cannons’s brackets is bent. And there’s a light out near office.
I keep my hands busy, but my head keeps replaying the way she’d laughed when I’d said stay.
By midafternoon I’m halfway through replacing a section of fence when I hear tires crunching on gravel. Dylan’s truck pulls up beside me. He hops out, phone in hand, expression tight.
“Don’t freak out,” he says, which is the exact phrase that guarantees I’m about to lose my mind.
“What now?”
He holds out the phone. On the screen is a social-media post—Karen’s profile picture, her smug grin centered above a photo taken from a distance.
Squinting my eyes, I see it.
Me. Tricia. Her back against the car, my hand at her waist, her head tilted up as we kiss good-bye.
The caption: So much for wholesome family fun at Carver Family Pumpkin Patch. Looks more like a brothel than a farm.
For a second, all I can hear is the blood in my ears.
“Lanie sent it,” Dylan says quietly. “Said it’s already making the rounds. Comments, shares… you know how this town gets.”
I hand the phone back, jaw tight. “When?”
“An hour ago.”
I glance toward the road where Tricia’s tire tracks have already faded. “She doesn’t know yet.”
“Quinn…” Dylan hesitates. “It’s ugly. And if Karen’s tagging the chamber of commerce, the sponsors… It could cause problems.”
I nod once, throat burning. “I’ll handle it.”
By the end of the day, my nerves are shot.
I’ve drafted and deleted three statements in my head. Press release, apology post to our profile, anything. But the truth is, I don’t owe Karen, or the public, a damn word.
What I do owe is protection—to the farm, to my family, to the fragile chance we’ve clawed out of debt.
My phone buzzes with a new message from Tricia.
When will you be here?
Should I start coffee or wine?
I stare at the screen until the letters blur. Then I type:
I’m not coming tonight.
Dots appear. Vanish. Reappear.
Everything okay?
I don’t answer fast enough. The phone rings. Her name lights the screen.
I swipe to accept. “Hey.”
“Hey?” she echoes, voice bright with confusion. “What’s going on?”
I blow out a breath. “Karen happened.”
There’s a beat of silence. “What do you mean?”
“She posted a picture. Of us. Kissing. Said some garbage about the patch being a brothel.”
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” She exhales hard. “That woman needs a life.”
“It’s not funny, Tricia.”
“I’m not laughing,” she says. “It sucks, yes, but it doesn’t have to be a big deal. We can—”
“It’s already a big deal.” I pace the floor, hand pressed to the back of my neck. “This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. The gossip, the talk, the questions about my judgment.”
“Your judgment?” Her voice sharpens. “You mean me.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Sure sounds like it.”
I close my eyes. “Tricia, please. You know what’s at stake. One wrong headline, one sponsor backing out, and we’re done. The bank will call the loan and—”
“So your solution is to stop seeing me.”
Silence. The longest, loudest silence I’ve ever heard.
Finally I say, “For now. We can’t be together. Not right now.”
“I see,” she says, her voice brittle and quiet. “Are you firing me too?”
“What? No, of course not—”
The line clicks dead before I can finish.
I stand there, phone still to my ear, listening to the empty static that follows a goodbye someone didn’t say.
Pumpkin pads over, nudging my knee with his nose, sensing what I can’t admit aloud. I drop into a crouch, hand in his fur, the weight of it grounding and useless all at once.
“She deserves better than this,” I tell him.
He thumps his tail once, sympathy in canine form.
Outside, the last of the light fades over the ridge. The farm looks the same—fences, fields, pumpkins glowing faintly orange in the dusk—but it feels different now, hollowed out.
I pocket the phone and stare toward the road she’ll drive tomorrow, knowing I won’t be waiting at the end of it.
And for the first time since this season began, I let myself think the words I’ve been avoiding:
Maybe saving the farm means losing her.
The thought hurts worse than I could have imagined.