Because all I’ll end up doing is liking him; I can already feel a crush coming on. It took root the second he took me to that farm, helped me into that hay wagon, and walked around a pumpkin field with me.

Watching him stuff Biff McMuscles, the scarecrow version, into his truck…a hulking, overgrown boy of a man…that did something to me. Something warm and melty like the caramel on my apple, sweet and salty and just the thing I didn’t know I needed.

Jackson

I know why Charlie is looking at me that way, but I’m doing my best to avoid her question by playing dumb.

This was a bad idea.

She didn’t want to come out with me in the first place, but I couldn’t resist the fucking challenge, and now she’s sitting in my goddamn kitchen, at my goddamn table—in that dress and those shoes, with that hair and that smile.

The blush on her cheeks make the freckles across the bridge of her nose brighter.

So I say the only thing I can think of to avoid softening those blue eyes any further.

“Hanging out.”

Her full lips turn down and I know I’ve disappointed her, but shit. Emotionally, I can’t afford to actually date her—I can take her on dates, but that’s it.

One date here, one date there.

When I have time, which is rare.

Girls always want more. Expect more. Demand more.

Time, energy, attention.

Everything.

I watched my mama do it to Pops for years—it was never enough attention. He was just too busy, obsessing over football from the time I could walk, and raising me to be a star athlete, like he was in school. When I showed promise, my daddy found his passion: getting me on track to play pro ball, something he could never do himself.

They fought. She cried. He left.

They fought. She cried. He left.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

“Hanging out,” Charlie repeats. “Gotcha.”

She pushes her chair back and rises from the table, taking the cookie sheet of seeds along with her, walking to the counter. Back to me, ramrod straight.

Legs, tan and smooth.

Ass, firm and round.

She’s removed her jacket, pushed up her sleeves, shoulders baring, hair falling to one side of her neck, long and silky.

I clear my throat and get back to my task. “This was fun, yeah?”

“Yup.”

Shit. I know that particular version of yup—I’ve said it a dozen times myself, in that tone. She’s pissed, but she’ll deny it now that I’ve soured the mood with the truth.

What does she want from me?

I watch her at the counter—my counter—I feel…

Guilty as fuck.

I should never have asked her out. She’s going to develop expectations, and I might not have the balls to shut her down completely when it turns out, I’m not ready.

Not really.

I have no practice dealing with women. Guys, yes. Girls? No.

I’ve never dated a single soul. Never taken a date to a high school dance, never made out with anyone in the back of a car. Or my truck. Or a cornfield.

I have felt tits before, but they were on a stripper, during a guys’ trip to the strip club for a teammate’s twenty-first, out of town and past the city limits so we wouldn’t get caught—though every single person there had to have known who we were.

Man-children the size of giants don’t waltz into gentlemen’s clubs every day of the week.

Fake tits I paid to feel.

Not my finest moment.

“Want help with those?” I offer, desperate. The last thing I want is for her to be mad; we were having fun, and now…we’re not.

“Nope. You keep doing what you’re doing.”

Shit.

I set the knife down, resting my hands on the table’s surface, debating. Wipe my palms on the thighs of my jeans, tapping my fingers on the fabric.

Debating.

Before I can think twice, I’m standing and crossing the small space. I stand behind Charlie, my body pressed against her back, hands poised on her upper arms.

She stills.

Waits.

Hands threaded in the mush on the cookie sheet, separating pumpkin guts from seeds, an ooey, gooey mess.

“Don’t be mad.” Eventually my palms quit hovering and land on her shoulders.

I feel her stiffen, feel her intake of breath.

“I’m…”

She’s going to deny it, but we both know it would be a lie.

I move my hands slowly, reveling in how smooth the skin on her shoulders is, so unlike mine. Watch as my calloused fingers trace along her bare flesh, over the soft curve of her neck.

“I’m just…”

Charlie’s neck tilts the barest fraction to the left.

I stare at that spot—the one that no doubt smells like her. Fresh and feminine and perfect.

She’s not short, and she’s in heels; I’d only have to lean down slightly to place my lips in the crook of her neck. I’ve never done it before; I’ve never done lots of things guys my age have done, and for a split second I regret being so regimented.

It wasn’t because I wanted to be; it was because I had to be.

Because of Pop’s drive and determination.

I have drive and determination of my own, and most of it matches his, but am I my own man if everything I do is because he demanded it of me?

Because of everything he denied me?

Women make you weak, son.

Women make you lose.

I don’t feel weak standing behind Charlie. I feel strong and virile and hard.

Sensitive.

I dip my head.

Rest my lips on her neck, right in the spot God intended them for.

When her arm comes up, when her goopy fingers thread through my hair, we both moan.

My hands drag down her arms and to her hips, palms grasping at her narrow waist, pulling her in against my body.

She smells so damn good, better than I was imagining but nowhere near as good as she feels. Pumpkin spice and vanilla and whatever this shampoo is that she uses—fucking fantastic. Cherries and almonds.

I can’t stop my hands from exploring. They’re so much bigger than she is, cover so much ground with little effort, and Charlie lets me.

Gently my fingers press into her hipbones, make a triangle like they’re catching a football and go farther down to that V between her legs. Slowly up over her abs.

She’s soft in all the right places.

Charlie withdraws her pumpkin-covered fingers from my hair and turns, her back pressed against the kitchen counter. Eyes widen when they rise to my hairline.

“Jackson.” Just my name, but said in a way that speaks volumes: What are you doing? Why did you kiss me? Are you going to do it again? Will I let you?

“Charlotte.” I have no idea what else to say—not when she’s staring up at me with those big, bright blue eyes. They’re searching mine, a bit confused and honestly, so am I.

I’m confused as fuck.

“You have pumpkin guts in your hair,” she says at last, reaching up with her gunk-covered fingers to pull out a seed that’s stuck in the strands.

“I don’t fuckin’ care.” I like her touching me, dirty hands or not.

“Someone is going to notice.”

“I don’t fuckin’ care.”

“You’re so…” Her voice trails off, catching when she finishes with the word, “Cute.” She breathes it quietly, as if it’s a confession and not a statement.