Page 14 of The Lumberjack’s Pumpkin Spice Problem

"He carved me a sign, Mom," I said. And my mother, who has been married to my father for thirty-six years, nodded like that explained everything.

The town adopted us as a couple the way small towns do. Quickly, loudly, with gossip and generosity in equal measure. Sage keeps a table at Bean and Bloom reserved for Saturday breakfast. Luna put a romance novel in the Chapter and Curse window display with a sticky note that says "Local lumberjack romance energy. Ask inside." Venus at Tangled Roots did my hair for the Christmas festival and spent three hours telling me about her theory of love languages as they apply to men who work with their hands.

"A man who carves you something is saying what his mouth can't," she said. "Trust the hands."

I trust the hands.

I trust the man attached to them.

Tonight we're having dinner on the porch. Steaks again, because that's our thing now. Bear will lie between our chairs. The sun will drop behind the mountains. The field will be dark except for the construction stakes marking where the farm stand will rise.

Emmett reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a key.

"What's that?"

“Key to the cabin. You’re here every night. Your toothbrush is in my bathroom. Bear sleeps on your feet. Your plant is on my windowsill and I still don’t know why it needs a name. Just take the key.”

“Emmett Drake. Are you asking me to move in?”

“I’m giving you a key. The moving in part seems redundant since your clothes already take up half my closet and Gus apparently needs his own spot by the window.”

“His name is Gus?”

“You named him Gus three months ago and told me I was responsible for keeping him alive when you travel. I’ve been watering a plant on a schedule taped to my fridge like it’s a military operation. The least you can do is officially live here.”

“I love you, lumberjack.”

“Love you too, pumpkin girl.” He pulls me into his side. “Now explain why Gus needs sunlight but not too much sunlight one more time because I’m genuinely concerned I’m killing him.”

I laugh. He holds me tighter. Bear sighs.

Home. This grumpy, flannel-wearing, sign-carving man is my home.

And the south field, the one he almost didn't share, is growing something better than pumpkins.