My date wrinkles her nose. “Too bumpy. Plus, it’s covered in dirt.”

Oh my god.

“That one looks good.”

Charlie examines it then shakes her head again. “Meh.”

“Whose pumpkin is this? It ain’t yours, so why don’t you let me figure it out?”

“Because you’re just pointing to random ones. Don’t you want it to mean something?”

“Mean something? It’s a pumpkin.”

“I know, but when we get back to your place to carve them, don’t you want to—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I interrupt. “Back to my place to carve them? Slow your roll, Charlotte.”

She tilts her head and crosses her arms. Willfully.

Shit. I know that look; I’ve seen it before on my mama. Charlie is about to dig her heels in for the long haul, and I doubt it’s an argument I’m going to win. Not if she has her mind set on comin’ back to my place, which it seems like she does.

“We can’t carve these at my place,” I insist, kicking at a rock with the toe of my brown leather boot.

Her arms are still tight across her chest, hair kicking up from a passing breeze. “Why not?”

“No knives.”

“Oh my god, shut up.” She laughs. “You do too have knives.”

“Nope. No knives.”

She considers me a few moments, gauging the sly grin pasted on my face, looking me over from head to toe, starting from the tips of my boots. Up the front of my jeans. The clean, navy polo I’ve only worn one other time and that looks brand new. Her eyes take in my broad shoulders, thick neck, and the humor playing in my eyes.

At least—I hope she interprets all that, because she’s not saying anything and neither am I, and it’s fucking cold and I still haven’t chosen a damn pumpkin.

“Why don’t you just pick one for me?” I suggest.

“Why don’t we pick one out together?” she volleys back. “How about I put mine back and we get a cute one and carve it together.”

A cute one?

Jesus.

Going back to my place and carving that little bastard sounds way too fucking domestic, and I’m not looking to be tied down.

Fun, yes.

Relationship, no.

Then what are you doing on this date, smartass?

Still…

I cave. “Fine. We’ll get one.”

She takes her time with the selection, dragging me around the pumpkin patch, one hay wagon having come and gone, picking people up and dropping off a few more.

Charlie has me by the elbow, using me for support; her heels or sandals or whatever get caught up so many times in divots, she’s resigned to hang on to me—not that I’m complaining. Fingers pressed into the crook of my arm, her blonde hair hangs in a wave, catching light and glowing as the sun slowly begins setting in the distance.

Together, we critique different sizes and shapes of orange pumpkins, discussing various ways they could be carved.

“This might be fun with a football on it. You could put it on the steps outside with a candle inside. That would be cute.”

Cute.

“It would get smashed within ten minutes.”

“Ugh, you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.” Her eyes get wide. “Oh, Jackson! How ’bout that one?”

Fuck. I love it when she says my name.

Jackson. Not JJ, or Triple J, or Junior, like everyone else calls me, including my parents and my friends. I’ve always thought it was kind of impersonal in a way, though great for keeping people at arm’s length.

Keeps me focused.

Keeps my eye on the prize.

Keeps my eye on the end goal: the pros.

But when Charlie says my real name, when she says Jackson—the way she says it? It makes my stomach curl, as if I’ve just done a hundred crunches and worn out my abs.

Her fingers unfurl from my arm and, on shaky legs, she makes her way to a round, smooth pumpkin, a cheery shade of orange all over with a long, coiled stem.

It’s damn near perfect.

“It’s almost perfect!” she exclaims, mimicking my thoughts.

I grunt. “That the one you want?”

“What do you think?”

I don’t give a fuck, I want to say, but I don’t, because it would hurt her feelings. She’s way too jacked up about this pumpkin. “Looks good.”

“So you like it?” She’s hopeful.

“Sure.”

“I do, too—let’s get this one.” We both look down at it. “Can you carry it?”

Obviously I can—I’m Goliath. Nevertheless, it makes me feel like a badass that she asked, and that she did it with a little twinkle in her blue eyes while eyeing up my biceps.

Dang, if she keeps looking at me that way—with those soft eyes and sweet smile—I’m going to forget myself and catch feelings for her, or something equally foolish.

It’s bad enough that I’m about to take a goddamn pumpkin home to the house and carve it in my fucking kitchen for everyone to see.

I’m going to catch a rash of shit about it from the guys, no question.

I squat instead of bending over, scoop up the heavy vegetable, then tuck it under one arm, supporting its weight with my palm like I would a greased up baby pig, or a baby goat, or—

“The wagon’s already coming back around,” Charlie is saying next to me as she pulls at the collar on her denim jacket, shielding herself from the wind that’s been picking up since we got here. The skirt of her dress picks up, blown up by the breeze.

Standing side by side, we wait patiently for the hay wagon to position itself. Stop.

The driver climbs off the tractor and pulls down the stoop, placing a wooden block under it like he did when we originally scrambled on, and Charlie steps one heeled foot onto it now. Then the other, until she’s back up in the wagon, settling her fanny onto a hay bale. Smooths the skirt of her dress down with the palms of her hands, holding it in place when it gets kicked up by a gust of wind.

I heave myself up after her, plopping down beside her. Legs spread, I try to ignore it when she shivers.

“You cold?”

She shivers again in reply. “A little.”

I don’t have a jacket to offer her, just the heat from my giant body.

“Um…” I’m not good at this, but I set the pumpkin on the ground between my feet and put my arm around Charlie. Pull her in closer, tucking her under my armpit like I’d do a football—or a pumpkin. “Better?”

“Yes, thank you.” She hunkers down a little more. “You’re blocking the wind, which is nice.”

I’m blocking the wind because I’m a fortress of strength and steel and goddamn power, and don’t you forget it.

“You’re like a big brick wall.”

Uh.

“I prefer fortress of strength.”

She laughs into the solid wall of my chest, her giggle muffled by my shirt. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“But I am.”

Her body shakes. “Stop it, Jackson.”

What the hell? “You don’t think I am?”

“I mean, even if I did, I wouldn’t call you that. Who says that? Fortress of strength—that’s hilarious.”

I feel myself blush and thank God for the cold and breeze, because now that she’s teasing me, I feel like a fucking idiot for having said the words fortress of strength out loud to this girl.