Page 4 of Rescued By the Mountain Man’s Pumpkin

Warmth blooms across my cheeks. He's rude. He's grumpy. He's also not wrong about any part of this.

I drop the pumpkin piece, take the flannel, and pull it on. It's enormous. The hem falls past my thighs, the sleeves swallow my hands, and it smells like him. Sawdust and something smoky, warmth still trapped in the fabric.

He watches me button it with an expression I can't read. Then he bends, picks up the pumpkin piece, and looks at the ruined pumpkin beside it.

"That was a sixty-pound Dill's Atlantic Giant," he says.

"Is that... expensive?"

"It was the best one I grew this year."

Guilt sinks through me like cold water.

"I'll pay for it."

"With what? You just told me you don't have clothes."

"I have a wallet. I have Venmo. I can write you a check."

"I don't know what Venmo is, and I haven't cashed a check since 2019." He picks up the rest of the pumpkin, what's left of it, cradling the lopsided thing against his chest. "Come on."

"Where?"

"Inside. You're not driving back to town holding a flannel shut with one hand." He starts walking toward the house without looking back.

"I didn't get your name," I call after him.

"Didn't offer it."

I grab my bag from the ground, brush dirt off my backside, hitch the flannel tighter around me, and follow the most infuriating man in Montana toward his front door.

My phone buzzes.

Mom:

Poppy did you eat

Me:

I'm about to

CHAPTER TWO

DECK

She's still following me.

Boots crunching on gravel, camera bag bouncing against her hip, my flannel hanging past her knees. The woman just destroyed my best pumpkin, wrecked three crates, tore her dress in half, and she's walking behind me toward my house with her chin up like she's got an invitation.

She doesn't have an invitation. What she has is no clothes, no shame, and my only flannel.

The screen door groans when I pull it open. Inside, the kitchen is the same mess I left it this morning. Coffee mug in the sink. Half a loaf of bread on the cutting board. The slow cooker is on, because the slow cooker is always on when there's chili happening, and chili happens every Wednesday. My mother's recipe, six hours minimum. Cumin, three kinds of peppers, beer instead of stock. The kitchen smells like it has opinions about hospitality that I don't share.

She steps inside behind me. Stops in the doorway. Looks around.

"You can sit," I say, pointing to the table. Two chairs, one I use, one that holds a stack of seed catalogs.

She moves the catalogs herself before I can do it, sets them on the counter, pulls the chair out, and sits. My flannel rides up when she crosses her legs. Brown skin against red plaid. Silver rings catching light from the window.