My eyes dart over to Molly’s window. It’s still lit up, but she’s no longer in it.

The coast is clear.

If Chandler senses my intention, she doesn’t comment, but she does still have her chin tilted in my direction, eyes watchful, lips pouty.

“Thanks for bringing me home.”

I count to three.

One.

Two.

Three.

Push off from leaning against her car door and slide a hand over her hip, dipping my head toward hers.

Our mouths meet in a chaste kiss.

We smile, automatically going in for another as if by magnetic force, only one thought playing like a loop inside my head.

Do not fall in love with this girl, Wallace.

Do.

Not.

Fall.SixteenChandlerTripp Wallace is wearing a sweater.

That’s right—that man is clothed in an honest to god, bona fide sweater. Hard to imagine, but here he is, a walking, talking wet dream.

Drool may or may not be coming out the side of my mouth. He looks so incredibly good—so handsome and masculine.

And it’s not just any old sweater; it’s one of those chunky fall kinds that look spun from oatmeal, birch, fireside chats, and walks in the snow.

What’s worse? He’s dressed the dog up in a costume, the little pooch trotting along happily after being hoisted down from the back seat of Tripp’s truck wearing a candy corn outfit.

Stop it right now…

God has a funny sense of humor, sending me a man who wants nothing to do with dating, relationships, or the warm and fuzzy trappings that come along with it. Like snuggling and romantic dates, and…and…

Is the pumpkin patch a romantic date?

Debatable, especially when said date is tromping through the field wearing steel-toed work boots, seemingly on a mission to get in and out.

I kneel down, fingers grazing the side of an enormous, bright orange gourd.

“What about this one?” I poke at it.

Tripp glances over his shoulder, his hand gripping Candy Corn Chewy’s long leash, scratching the stubble beneath his own chin, five o’clock shadow only adding to his metrosexual vibes.

“It’s too lumpy,” he decides, taking a few steps in my direction.

Too lumpy. Too round, too flat. Too thin.

This man is ridiculous.

“What are you looking for exactly?”

“Not too big and not too small. I don’t want to pay a fortune for something that’s going to be dead within a week,” he says seriously. “I need one that is smooth with plenty of room for sculpting the face.”

Oh, he’s sculpting now instead of carving?

Around his feet, Chewy sniffs at the leaves, happily grabbing hold of a vine with his teeth and snarling as if he’s winning a wrestling match.

He quickly loses interest and drops it, dozens upon dozens of available vines within reach.

“Chewy.” Tripp makes a kissing sound. “Come here.”

He bends, commanding the pup to sit, and arranges a few pumpkins into a fall vignette. Takes the cell out of his back pocket, cleaning the camera lens off with the hem of his sweater, then snaps a few photographs. “Such a handsome boy!” he coos to his pet, giving him a scratch behind the ears.

My panties get wet.

Tripp would make such a great dad.

I clear my throat, turning away and moving to yet another plump pumpkin in the patch.

It’s not too big, not too small, and has the perfect surface for, um—sculpting. Ha! Let’s see what Captain Picky thinks about this one.

“I think I found one.” I hoist it off the ground and hold it out, my weak arms wobbling slightly from zero workouts. “What do you think?”

Tripp stands, rising from his haunches, and brushes his hands on his faded jeans.

“That could work.” He studies it. “Yeah—I like that one. Let’s throw it in the wagon.” Tripp gives the side of the red trolly a slap, making that kissing sound again. “Come on Chewy, in the wagon you go.”

I add the pumpkin, he adds the pup, and we walk.

“Hey, that’s a good one.” Tripp points to the ground as we pass an oblong pumpkin, a bit tall, but wide enough for a decent carving. “Do you like it?”

I do.

I do!

In the wagon it goes, dog still stuffed inside, panting and grinning his merry way through the field, occasionally barking when the tractor drives by with people to let them know he’s there.

Wanting pets and praise.

Since we have the cart, we can’t get back on the hay wagon. The main barn a good quarter mile walk away, we make toward the road, my rain boots kicking up dirt and rocks, dust settling on the toe.

It feels good to be outside in the crisp weather, traipsing along beside him as he pulls the wagon through the bumpy field. Domestic, even. As if we’ve done this before—year after year.

I glance down at his hand, his large, masculine hand, wrapped around the metal handle, knuckles speckled with dark hair. Dry, cracked hands. Big. Strong.

When I look up, he’s watching me and not the road, one brow raised.