Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 85267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
As he squats to reorganize it, I chuckle at his back and the butt crack now visible over the waistband of his mesh track pants.
Not to judge, but his ass is crazy hairy; God bless the girl who gets into bed with that guy.
Why am I thinking about this? Jesus, Charlie.
Jackson catches me staring and clears this throat, tilting the pumpkin toward me so I can inspect his work. He’s made clean lines—not a hack job—and removes the top so I can peer inside.
I push up the sleeves of my dress. Pick up a large spoon. “I’m ready to gut this thing.” I try to sound savage but am too cheery to pull the badassery off.
The inside of the pumpkin is slimy and moist when I stick my arm in, almost up to my elbow, but I knew it would be. Years of taking the seeds out of pumpkins prepares you for the sensation, but somehow it’s always still kind of gross and gag worthy.
And moist.
I root around with the utensil, slapping a spoonful of guts onto the cookie sheet Tyson has magically produced and lain on the table.
He’s disappeared, blessedly leaving us alone.
“You want help?”
“No, I’ve got this, but thanks. You just be ready with the cookie sheet…” I glance up at him. “What else do we need to bake these? Salt? Olive oil?” I can’t remember; my mom always baked the seeds.
“My mama always used some kind of spice. Let me text her.”
My mama.
So. Southern.
“What do you think we should carve on this? Iowa’s mascot? A witch?”
Jackson takes a few seconds to consider it. Then, “What about a sayin’ or somethin’?” He pauses. “Like ‘Get the fuck off my porch.’ Or, I don’t know. Somethin’.”
A sayin’ or somethin’.
I shiver at the way he says the words. Simple and basic as they are, they still flip my stomach into a dip.
“A saying is a great idea. Probably a short one since there isn’t a ton of room.”
“How ’bout ‘Zero fucks given.’”
“That works.” I laugh. “Where we putting this when it’s done? Because I do not want that on my stoop.”
“Well we can’t put it on mine—it’ll get smashed.”
“But you have the pumpkin patrol to back you up.”
Jackson laughs, his smile beautiful and wide, his five o’clock shadow much darker than the rest of his dark blond hair. His face is tan from practicing for hours with the sun beating down on him, and everything about him screams healthy and virile. Think mountain man meets schoolboy meets athlete.
“PP patrol.” He nods.
“PP as in pee pee,” I can’t stop myself from saying. “You do like those double and triple initials.”
“Ha ha, yeah—not my fault.”
No, it’s not—but he sure exploits them to his advantage, and who doesn’t love a football player from the South with old-fashioned mannerisms and an old-school nickname?
Nobody doesn’t love that.
And here I am, falling for the bastard myself.
So inconvenient. I wish he’d stop looking at me that way.
Like…a friend? Dammit. He better not be friend-zoning me.
It’s really kind of annoying. Not that I want him to be all over me like a wet rag, because I’m not sure what I would do with myself then, but the least he could do is eyeball me inappropriately. Get caught staring at my boobs, try feeling me up under the table—you know, that kind of thing.
Instead, Jackson is chiseling away at the pumpkin, almost ignoring me completely, punctuating each thrust of his knife with a low grunt, as if the task of stabbing the sharp tine into the flesh is grueling. Or difficult. Or requires actual effort and muscle.
In all the years I’ve watched my parents—Pops, usually—carving a pumpkin, it’s always been a struggle sticking the knife through its thick wall and pulling it out.
Not for Jackson; he makes it look easy, probably because he’s one hundred times stronger than my dad will ever be. Bigger and in shape, hundreds of hours of workouts to thank for his physique.
He chooses that moment to look up, wielding the knife in his right hand, pausing with it in the air.
“What?” He’s blunt, eyes blank, unable to read my thoughts.
“Nothing.” Typical response of everyone in the world who has ever been caught staring and doesn’t want to admit it.
“All right.” He doesn’t push, returning to his task. “You sure you want this to say zero fucks given?”
“Yes?” It reminds me of a gold bracelet I have that I sometimes wear when I’m feeling sassy. It makes me feel rather empowered when I wear it, though not many people ever stop to read what it says.
“Where we puttin’ this?” Jackson stands up and goes to a drawer, rummaging around and returning to the table with a black marker. “You wanna do the honors?”
“Sure.” I take it from his fingers, brushing mine against his on purpose. When he repositions the pumpkin so it’s in front of me, I carefully write the phrase in block letters on the slippery skin, large enough so it will be easy to carve.