Pumpkin to Talk About: A Novella

by Allie Samberts

All I can see are broad shoulders that test the limits of his collared shirt, and very expensive jeans that hug an excellent ass. I’m sure I’ve never seen this man before. I’d remember an ass like that.

Who knew pseudo-parenting would be kind of like spending the night at a bar, except without the booze.

I look at her incredulously. “You drink this?” “It’s local,” she says by way of explanation. “It’s pumpkin,” I counter.

But I need her, too, in a way I’ve never needed anyone else. It’s like she’s been here, waiting for me all along, and I just had to look around and see it.

“I said you need to be quiet. You wouldn’t want your friends knowing I’m fucking you over here, would you?”

Two realizations hit me like a ton of bricks. The first is that the only thing I want in the world is to stay here with her. The second is that if I don’t leave right now, I’m never going to.

And that’s about when I realize that I want to look at Bluebell Allen every day for the rest of my life.