We climb out of our respective cars, and Coco drags Romy into the field with her. She points at the pumpkins, big, small, all orange-gold against the green vines.

Light filters through the trees at the end of the field, casting long shadows across the dry, sunbaked ground, and the warmth of the afternoon sun on my back reminds me of my childhood, of family.

Funny that I should be here with a woman who doesn’t want mine.

“Punkins!” Coco cries, racing from the gate into the mass. She leaps over one smaller mound and crouches near another, her little face alive with excitement.

“She really does love pumpkins, huh?” Romy asks.

I turn to give her a half-hearted smile. “Yeah. She sure does.”

We walk through the field after Coco, the birds the only sound in the otherwise awkward silence between us.

“Sorry again.”

“I should have—”

We both speak at the same time, and I give a small smile. “You go first.”

“Don’t worry about it. It wasn’t important.” She shakes her head, and we drift into silence once more.

I offer her the paper bag B left with me before she ducked off for her mysterious work “emergency.” Romy mightn’t want to date me, but surely we can at least be friends. This weirdness between us is driving me crazy. “Muffin?”

“Oh. I shouldn’t.” Romy shakes her head.

“Why not?” I frown. “It’s orange and poppy seed. It’s good.”

“Orange is my favorite. But I guess you already knew that.” Romy’s voice sounds dreamy, as if she’s tasting the citrus tang while forming the words. For the first time since we got out of the car, her shoulders seem to relax. Her eyes light up.

She’s beautiful.

So fucking beautiful.

“What else do you love?” I ask, unable to stop myself. “Flavors, I mean. What flavors do you love?”

“Well . . .” She pauses for a moment. “Rosewater is a flavor I find myself drawn to. I think it’s because my grandmother used to have these little rose soaps in her bathroom, so perfect you could just eat them.”

I laugh. “I know the kind. I think every grandmother had them at some point.”

“Even yours?” Romy asks.

“Sure. You’ve met Nonna before. She’s definitely into those kitschy soaps. In fact, I think she has some still.”

“Just one more reason I want her to adopt me.” Romy smiles, and I want to make her do it again. I want to make her smile more than I should.

“Anything else that makes your favorite ingredient hit list?” I ask.

“Hmm . . .”

“Pumpkins?” I tease.

“No. I wish I could say they made my list, but aside from the odd piece of pie, they’re just not my thing.” She pauses, then gives a short nod. “Champagne. That’s my final favorite ingredient.”

“Champagne?”

“Yes. I like the way it tastes like fruit, like crisp mornings and special celebrations all at once.” Her voice takes on that tone again, as if she’s feeling the bubbles pop on her tongue as she speaks. “There’s something special about champagne.”

“There is.” I nod, since I’m not one of those guys who can’t appreciate a fine wine, sparkling or otherwise. “Champagne is one of my favorites too.”

“Really?” she asks.

I add it to the list: books, baking, a drive to succeed in business, a love of Nonna’s Ribollita. Now, champagne. Just one more thing we have in common. “Really.”

We keep walking, Coco’s giggles like music as she dances amongst the overgrown vegetables.

“She’s very cute,” Romy says, and I nod. “How long have you been picking pumpkins here?”

“Since I was maybe three. Every Halloween without fail we’d come here and do it together, just me, my brother, and my sister.”

“I’ve never met him,” she says, her brow furrowed.

“No. We’re not very close.” I tense, thinking of the past—of how he betrayed me in the worst possible way. “But B and Nonna I see almost every day.”

“And your parents?”

“We’re okay, but they’re closer with my other siblings. Nonna and Nonno are the ones I call if I need a hand with Coco. I’m so damn lucky to have them in my life.” And thank fuck I do. In the last four years, I’ve leaned on them more times than I can count.

“Family means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” Romy cocks her head to the side, as if she’s trying to wrap her mind around the concept.

“Yeah. More than anything.”

We continue in silence. Coco flits from one pumpkin to another, pointing to the odd contender for her perfect pick.

“What about you?” I finally ask.

“Does my family pick pumpkins?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Are you guys close?”

“Kind of,” she says. “I’m an only child. I see my parents every month for dinner, so I guess we’re close, but sometimes . . .”

“What?” I prompt.

“Sometimes it just feels like they want me to be someone I’m not. Someone better.”

“Better?” How could anyone want more than her?

“Yeah. You know? More successful. More . . . skinny.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re perfect.”

“Don’t. Please.” She holds up one hand to stop me, then pauses beside one particularly big pumpkin and stares at it. “They also wish I was more married.”

Oh.

Is marriage not on her agenda, just like kids?

Maybe. Maybe it’s another reason why we would never work as a couple.

I add it to another list, this one notably shorter than the group of things we have in common. This one is full of deal-breakers.

It’s a list of reasons Romy and I will never work.

End of story.

And it’s in my best interest to end this weird pumpkin-picking session now, before I forget that. I don’t know what I was thinking when we first walked into this field. We can’t be friends. With a woman as intoxicating as her, I could never be just friends. “Listen, this is weird. Awkward. Why don’t you go back and wait at the car, and we’ll—”

“Daddy! Daddy! I found it!”

I look ahead, away from the woman who’s somehow captured so much of my heart. Coco stands beside what has to be the biggest pumpkin I’ve ever seen. It spans the width of my shoulders and is as high as my midthigh, or maybe even bigger. How the heck am I gonna carry that thing back to the car?

“Are you sure it’s not a smaller one?” I’ll need some kind of crane to move that thing outta here.

“No, Daddy. This is the one.” Coco nods.

“Christ, help me,” I mutter, scrubbing my hands over my face before turning to Romy again. “Seriously, why don’t you go? I’ll handle this myself.”

“Let’s get it!” Romy cries. She doesn’t meet my gaze, racing toward my daughter with wild abandon.

I stare after her. What is she doing?

“Come on!” She turns back, a wide smile on her face. “You’re going to be left behind!”

Confused, I jog to catch up. What is she playing at? We can’t lift this giant hunk of vegetable.

When we reach Coco’s side, Romy’s already on the ground, studying the pumpkin as if she’s an expert. “Hmm. Good width. And I like the color.”

“I wike the cowor too,” Coco agrees. She links her hand with mine and squeezes.

“But . . .” Romy starts.

“But what?” Coco asks.

“I think we’re going to have a problem.” Romy bites her lip.

“What? What’s the pwobwem?” Coco’s grip tightens.

“We could take that pumpkin, but see this one here?” Romy points to another. It’s the size of my foot—manageable. Definitely a winner.

“Yesh.” Coco nods.

“It’s only a baby. It needs someone special to care for it. To look after it.” Romy runs a hand over the top of the pumpkin as if it truly is something unique.

“Punkins don’t have mommies or daddies.” Coco shakes her head, then looks to me for confirmation. “Do punkins have mommies or daddies?”

“No, they don’t.”

“Which is why it’s so sad that this baby pumpkin is going to be left here in the field, so lonely after we take this big one away.” Romy sighs.

Coco’s jaw drops. Her eyes turn to saucers. “We could take the small punkin!”

“Oh, no. We don't want to do that. Do we?” Romy says, shaking her head as if she hasn’t just laid the perfect trap.

“YES!” Coco’s curls dance around her face. “Small punkin. Wanna take the small punkin.”

“Are you sure?” I prompt. Because hell, as difficult as it would be, I’ll work out a way to get the big pumpkin home if she needs me to. I’d do anything for her, give her anything if it made her smile.

“I’m sure.” Coco nods.

We walk back to our cars, me carrying the small pumpkin, and Coco with her hand linked in Romy’s as she tells her all about her plans for its carving.

“Thanks for inviting me,” Romy says to Coco when we’re stopped beside her car.

“S’okay.” Coco smiles sweetly. “You pick good punkin.”

“Thank you. That’s quite the compliment coming from such an esteemed pumpkin picker.” Romy smiles. She straightens and gives me an awkward wave. Her tone changes, and any spark I felt rebuilding between us winks out. “I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah. See you.” I buckle Coco into the car. She’s still buzzing with excitement about the afternoon’s events. “And then Womy found the perfect one!” She lets out a sweet little breath and sighs. “Daddy, I’m gonna be the punkin’s mommy.”

My heart aches.

Seems that’s the one thing I’ll never be able to give her.