Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Raffa

Pumpkins. Fucking pumpkins. Of all the things my grandmother could rope me into, it's a pumpkin festival. What the hell is wrong with her? I hate pumpkins. They're orange and weird, and don't even get me started on the flavor. Pumpkin spice this, pumpkin-flavored that. The entire town seems obsessed with it like it's some magical fucking fruit. Not to worry though, the apples also have a spotlight in this town and it's mostly during the Fall Festival.

Like seriously, what is with all the harvesting fun? Wasn't Kentbury supposed to be all about maple syrup? I could get on board with that—maple syrup, pancakes . . . throw in some bacon, and sign me up for that festival. I'll even sponsor it if necessary. Not that I can eat any of that right now. Bland diet, remember? Fucking bland diet.

I sit here, stewing in my own irritation, while my grandmother beams like she's just solved the world's problems by pairing me with Meadow. And, yeah, it's not the worst situation—especially since my co-chair happens to be a ridiculously gorgeous redhead. My eyes can't help but drift over to her, tracing the curves she's trying to hide under that sweater.

Meadow.

Those hips . . . the kind of hips I could grab while fucking her against a wall or bending her over the nearest table. And her boobs? They look soft, like they'd fit perfectly in my hands, and I'd love to suck on them until she's panting. Then there are her lips—those plump, kissable lips that make me want to forget any rational thought I've ever had.

How the fuck am I supposed to strategize for a pumpkin themed festival when the only thing I can think about is figuring out how to get her lips on mine? And hell, kissing would just be the start.

Her body . . . fuck. If I wasn't stuck in this recovering-from-a-heart-attack bullshit, I'd have her up against the nearest wall already. She's the kind of woman who'd look even better out of those jeans, sprawled beneath me, flushed, and begging for more. And yeah, I can't help but wonder—could I even fuck her in my current condition? I mean, I could, right? No bacon, but yes Meadow?

The doctor didn't exactly say sex was off the table. And honestly? I'd risk it. For her? I'd risk a fucking heart attack just to see her lips part in a moan, her body arching under mine, as I take her right there.

I'm sitting here, pretending to care about pumpkins when all I really want is to peel off that damn sweater and get my hands on her skin. My mind flashes to the thought of her naked in my bed—no, scratch that—my fucking kitchen counter would do just fine. Would it be worth the consequences? Hell to the fucking yes.

Can I even kiss her without feeling like my chest is going to explode, though? Fuck, it's been a while since I've let myself think about sex, let alone feel anything remotely close to it. But Meadow? She's got me thinking all kinds of things I shouldn't be thinking. She makes me want, and I haven't wanted in a long time.

And the worst part? I'm stuck with her for the next four weeks, trying to plan this bullshit festival when all the while I'll be thinking about getting her under me.

Meadow stands up, smoothing down her sweater like it's going to help hide the effect she's clearly had on me. Yeah, not happening.

"I've got a few things to take care of," she says, her voice polite, professional, like she wasn't just tempting me with those curves a second ago. "But I'll text you so we can start organizing the festival as soon as possible."

Her words are efficient, but there's a flicker in her eyes—something that tells me she knows damn well I'm not just thinking about pumpkins right now.

"Sure," I grunt, trying not to sound too gruff. "Whenever you're ready."

She gives me a quick smile—polite, but nothing lingering. And then she's out the door, leaving me staring after her pretty ass like a fucking idiot.

As soon as the door clicks shut, I'm snapped back to reality by my grandmother, who's watching me with a knowing smile. Great.

"She's an art teacher, you know," Grandma says, her voice warm and proud. "At the schools."

"Which one?" I ask, still half-distracted by the thought of Meadow's hips.

"All of them," Grandma Genie replies with a chuckle. "There's not much of a budget, so they cut her time. She even helps with the special needs kids. She's wonderful with them."

I raise an eyebrow, caught off guard despite myself. "All the schools?"

Grandma nods, all proud smiles. "She's something special, that one. They're lucky to have her."

Special, huh? I glance back toward the door Meadow just walked through, feeling that knot of tension in my chest tighten. First pumpkins, now this? A gorgeous redhead who teaches art to kids and helps the ones with special needs? And here I am, stuck with a bland fucking diet, co-chairing a festival I couldn't care less about.

"Yeah," I mutter, still processing. "Lucky them."

"She's way younger than you," McKay chirps, like she's got a point to make.

"So?" I snap back, already irritated by her tone.

McKay shrugs. "She's almost thirty but not quite there yet."

"It's a fucking festival, McKay, not a marriage proposal," I grumble, rolling my eyes. "I don't even want to be a part of it."

"But you will, right?" My grandmother asks.

I nod because I wouldn't miss a chance to spend some time with Meadow.

"Yeah, well, you're looking at her like she's a delectable snack, and I just want to make sure you're aware she should not be on your menu," she says, her voice laced with warning. "You're only here for a little while, and she's not someone to mess with. Small-town girls want forever, and she's too young for your bullshit."

I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to snap back at McKay. She means well—she always does—but fuck, she has no clue what's going on in my head. Sure, Meadow's too good for me. Too sweet, too grounded, and yeah, too young. But that doesn't stop me from picturing those curves, those lips. My dick is semi-hard just thinking about them, how pouty they are, and whether they could take my girth. It's a dangerous game I'm playing here, but damn if my brain—or my body—cares.

And if I'm being honest, all I can think about is what it'd sound like to hear her moan my name. The way her body would feel under mine, warm, soft, trembling.

Yeah, I know better. I know she's not for me—too much of a future in her eyes for someone like me, who's just passing through. But fuck if I don't want to take that risk.