Dumps it all onto the surface of the table unceremoniously.

“Can I help?” This McMillan guy loiters and now has his hands on the back of a chair, intent on pulling it out.

“No! Go do somethin’ else,’” Jackson snaps. “Away from here.”

“I don’t have anything to do,” McMillan argues, still not letting go of the chair back. He inches it out.

“Find somethin’. Get out of the kitchen.”

I watch as Jackson grows increasingly frustrated, my eyes getting wide when another guy enters the room.

“What’s that?” The big dude points at the center of the table, at the pumpkin.

“Oh my god,” Jackson moans, but it comes out sounding like oh my gawd, and I smirk at his accent.

“I love carving pumpkins—is that the only one you got?”

“Yes, and you’re not helpin’. You’re leavin’.”

“I can’t leave. Coach’s rules—I have to be here.”

Jackson rolls his eyes, and McMillan leans over to slap the guy a high five. “Good one, Isaac.”

“What are you going to carve on it?” Isaac wants to know. “Once my sister had me carve a flying unicorn—that fucking thing took me two hours.” He pauses. “Where are we putting this? The porch?”

“No, she’s takin’ it home.” Jackson grinds the words out between clenched teeth, and it’s the first time this new guy—Isaac—acknowledges I’m in the room.

He smiles at me, glancing between Jackson and myself, a slow grin taking up half his face. His teeth are white but a bit crooked, and he’s missing one on the left side. Maybe he got it knocked out by an errant elbow on the playing field during practice?

“Who are you?” He’s blunt, but I don’t mind.

“I’m Charlie.”

“That’s a guy’s name,” he informs me rudely. Still, he’s smiling, as if he knows it’s going to piss Jackson off to tease me.

It does.

“It’s not a guy’s name, asshole. Leave her alone.”

That’s not what he said the first time he met me; he told me it was a guy’s name, too, but far be it from me to point that out in front of his friends when he’s already irritated by their presence.

“Why are you going to take the pumpkin home, Chuck? You don’t think it’ll look nice at this fine establishment?”

I hesitate before answering. “Jackson thinks it’ll get smashed being on the porch, and I agree with him.”

McMillan stands upright. “If anyone tries to smash this pumpkin after you’ve carved it, I’ll beat their ass in.”

I laugh, unable to stop myself. “Are you going to sit up watching the front steps every night?”

“No. I’ll just know—like a fucking Jedi.” He sounds pretty confident, punctuating his knowledge with a few air punches and ninja kicks.

“Wow.” I don’t know what else to say, but I don’t have to, because a third guy walks in before I have the chance to sit down.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Jackson mutters, yanking out a chair at the table and plopping down. “Charlotte, I told you this was gonna happen.”

I mean, he did…but he didn’t?

“Who are you?” this newcomer asks, holding a microwave bag of popcorn in one hand, a bottle of water in the other. He’s bigger than the rest, not only in height, but also in size. A Mack-Truck-sized guy with a beard and belly.

“Who are you?” I mimic with a smile. He seems sweet, but maybe that’s just because he could easily don a velvety red suit and black boots to play Santa Clause for the holidays. Jolly with a belly full of jelly.

“I’m Rodrigo.”

“I’m Charlie, Jackson’s friend.”

Rodrigo tilts his head. “Who’s Jackson?”

Everyone laughs, and McMillan claps a hand on his back. “Jackson is Southern Fried, big guy. Triple J. Otherwise known as the asshole who hogs the bathroom every morning when you’re tryna take a piss.”

They all laugh again, including Jackson, who seems to be staring holes into the perfectly round, perfectly shaped, perfectly colored pumpkin in the center of their kitchen table.

“What are you carving on that thing?” Rodrigo asks, fisting some popcorn and shoving it into his mouth, chasing it down with a healthy swig of water.

“We haven’t decided,” I let him know, joining my date at the table. Bumping his knee with mine when I scoot my chair in a bit farther. Our gazes meet, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. His blue eyes sparkle, and I can see the amusement shining there.

He sounds grouchy, but he’s secretly enjoying himself, this much is clear.

“One time, I carved one pumpkin for each of the Harry Potter houses even though I’m Ravenclaw,” Rodrigo announces. “My two sisters are Gryffindor and my little bro is Hufflepuff, but we still carved a Slytherin.”

“You’re such a fucking nerd,” Isaac laments, seating himself in the third chair. “I was sorted into two houses, which makes me a badass.”

“I’m Hufflepuff and Gryffindor—you’re not special. Get over yourself, Isaac.”

Whoa. Where is all this coming from? And who knew jocks could be such dorks?

“What if we carve the golden snitch?” Rodrigo wonders out loud.

“Or a golden snatch,” Isaac jokes with a laugh.

“We are not carvin’ a goddamn Harry-Potter-themed pumpkin—y’all shut the fuck up about it,” Jackson grumbles testily.

Y’all.

Ugh, so cute. I love it when he talks like that.

I nudge Jackson’s knee under the table and shoot him a small smile. He bows his head and returns it with a tiny shake of his head as if silently apologizing for his friends’ behavior.

I don’t mind it; it’s kind of adorable, all these big dudes standing around, arguing about what to put on an overgrown vegetable and being disappointed they can’t carve one, too.

“Isaac, you should run to the grocery store and grab a few more of these. I swear they had ’em when I was there yesterday.” Rodrigo squints his eyes in thought. “Big cardboard boxes full of pumpkins. Get you one.”

“Yeah?” Isaac rubs his goatee in thought.

“Ah hell, I’ll come with you!” Rodrigo is already out of the kitchen and in the living room, opening the front door. “Get your ass in gear, gringo. I don’t want them to get too far ahead of us.”

“Grab five!” McMillan calls out. “Just in case!” He seems to think about it for a few more seconds before pushing off from the counter and heading toward the door. “Wait—I’ll come along, too. I don’t want you buying me no stumpy gourd.”

The guy—who’s really just a giant kid—runs back toward the kitchen and holds his palm out to Jackson. Wiggles his meaty fingers. “Keys to your truck?”

My date grumbles but slaps them in his teammate’s waiting hand, obliging—begrudgingly, but giving in just the same. “Please just get the fuck out of here.”

Call me crazy, but I kind of like this grumpy, broody side of Jackson Jennings. It’s ten kinds of irresistible. I’m not a fool; I know he doesn’t want to be alone with me because he has romantic feelings for me. Nope. He wants to get his meddling friends out of the house.