Page 15

Jax

Words can’t even begin to describe the feeling in my fucking pumpkin-person-somewhere-in-between soul, the minute I hear Mason’s voice ringing loud and true with the three words that I know are going to change my life forever.

I love him.

I never believed in fairytales, or myths, or legends about men who turn into pumpkins if they don’t find true love. I never even really thought true love was something that was meant for me. I’d accepted my fate as a lonely old gay bachelor, and in a sense, I’d made my peace with it.

I never believed something so fantastical and so amazing could happen to me. That someone as hot, sweet, and perfect as Mason could be mine . Not until now, when my reality is kissing me like I am indeed Cinderella and he’s my fucking Prince Charming.

My insides feel like pumpkin goo in the best way possible, but a deep cough and the sounds of snapping and clicking cameras pull me from my stupor, and I realize with the most acute clarity I think I’ve ever felt, that I am naked, covered in puffy paint and glitter, and we are in public.

“Fuck,” I curse as I cover my junk, which I realize is already semi-covered by haphazardly glued fake craft vines. Mason laughs, the sound deep and rumbly, and I have to focus very hard on not … getting … hard.

“Shoo! Shoo! There’s nothing to see here,” Grandma touts as she waves at the throng of people. I lean my heads against Mason’s shoulder and let out a deep sigh.

“I am never going to live this down, am I?” I whine. Mason’s arms encircle me as he chuckles, his lips in my hair.

“Probably not,” he says, his voice full of light and love.

Love.

Grandpa curses, and it’s not just in English. My Gaelic is subpar, but I know the curse words.

“Come on, let’s get you boys inside. There’s fresh pie cooling on the counter,” Grandma says as she sets her arm around us, gently leading us toward the house.

“Thanks, Grandma,” I say, my voice shaking only a fraction. She smiles up at me with kind, knowing blue eyes.

“Of course, sweetheart. Although, if your grandpa manages to sell that display after your display, we may have to come up with a new marketing plan.” She grins, and Mason lets out a deep laugh.

“Well, I’d definitely buy a pumpkin from a hot naked man,” he says. Grandma laughs.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she says with a blush.

My eyes widen as she leads us in the door.

Before I can even open my mouth, Grandma shakes her head. “You, shower. No excuses,” she says as she all but shoves me towards my bedroom.

“But Grandma, I—”

“No buts, Jax. Mason and I have some things to discuss, and you need to get cleaned up.”

I can’t help the sigh that escapes me as I tell her, “Fine.” Although, I’m slightly nervous about just what she wants to discuss with my boyfriend.

No, not boyfriend …. mate.

Because I know without a doubt, Mason’s declaration is what forced me to shift back.

The legend said that unless I found my mate before my thirty-first birthday, I’d turn into a pumpkin forever. And I am not a pumpkin now.

Because Mason loves me.

Because he is my mate .

It is difficult to watch Grandma lead him away from me, but I know I really do need to shower and dress, if only because having fake vines glued to my dick is probably a health hazard.

Thankfully, the glue Grandpa used is just basic Elmer’s, likely from the pumpkin decorating hut we have for the kids, so it comes off with a little elbow grease and a soapy washcloth and doesn’t hurt as bad as I know it could.

When I finish in my small shower—God, I miss Mason’s shower— I throw a towel around my waist and head for my bedroom.

It looks much the way I left it: my comforter all rumpled, my clothes still hanging over the wicker hamper in the corner. I know I haven’t been gone that long, but it feels like forever since I’ve been in here.

I make my way to my dresser. Grandma packed a lot of my clothes and gave them to Mason the other day, but there’s still a good bit of basics left in the drawers.

I settle on a pair of black jeans, smirking when I see the orange Jack-O-Lantern smiley shirt.

It seems fitting, in more ways than one, so that’s what I go with.

I run some product through my hair, spritz myself with a fresh bout of cologne after applying my deodorant, and give myself a once over in the mirror.

I don’t look any different, at least not on the outside. No sign that I was ever a fucking gourd. Just the same old green-eyed man with unruly hair I’ve always been, but I feel different.

I feel like, in a way, I finally see myself .

But maybe that has something to do with the fact I’m wearing clothes after living like a nudist for the last few days. Pulling on my boots, I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the entire situation. But also, I’m strangely glad for it.

I stop just before the kitchen, leaning against the archway, and I just watch them. My grandmother and my mate . Mason’s smile is soft as she traces her fingers over his arm, over a red mark that looks oddly like …

She pulls up her sleeve, showing him her “tattoo” as she always called it.

It’s not really a tattoo, because it’s not really ink or anything.

It’s like a weird, vine-like birthmark. I always thought it was cool, and I can remember tracing my little fingers over it when she and Grandpa would tell me stories when I was really little.

And suddenly I realize why Mason’s mark looks so similar. It’s not similar at all. It’s the same.

“There you are,” Grandma says, turning to look at me. Mason turns at the same time, his amber eyes catching the light from above, glistening with golden promise.

My treasure.

She gets up immediately, and I move to stop her, but she holds a hand up.

“Don’t even think about it. This pie isn’t going to cut itself,” she says with that sweet order every grandmother must be known for. I sit my ass down, but I do protest.

“Gram, come on.”

“It’s your birthday, Jax. I made it just for you.”

I blush as I steal a look at Mason, who I notice is staring at me.

Yeah, I’m not the only one who is used to seeing me without clothes.

“It’s your birthday?” Mason asks. I set my hand on the table, and he leans closer, resting his hand on top of mine.

I can’t help the smile that crosses my face. I know I must look like a lovesick puppy or some shit, but I can’t find it in me to care. The moment his hand settles on top of mine, I feel warm all over, like the pumpkin goo is spreading throughout my veins, making me warm and toasty.

“It is,” I say sheepishly.

“Our Halloween baby is thirty-one today,” Grandma says as she sets down a plate of apple pie in front of me, and my stomach immediately growls like a damn lion.

Oh, how I’ve missed my grandmother’s apple pie!

Mason squeezes my hand, just as the screen door slams shut. Grandma sets about grabbing another plate, and we both turn to see Grandpa standing in the doorway, wearing his normal scowl. Before I can even say anything, he holds his hand up.

“I don’t want to hear a peep from you, Jax,” he says.

Grandma sighs. “Robert, today is Jax’s birthday—”

“I know what fecking day it is, Annie,” he says grumpily.

My grandmother sets a plate of pie down in front of Mason, whose hand is gripping mine tightly.

I watch as she approaches him. Like most of the men in my family, Grandpa is a big guy, and while he insists my grandmother used to be at least five nine, she’s been a sweet five foot five most of my life. Yet somehow, she towers over my grandpa when she stands up against him.

Or maybe he just shrinks because he’s scared of her, even though I know he’d never admit it.

No one goes against Annie Gallagher.

His green eyes glisten as he looks at Mason, then at me, then at the pie on the counter.

“You made pie,” he says dejectedly.

She crosses her arms. “It’s his favorite, you know. Just like you.”

Just like him? Since when has Grandpa had a thing for apple pie? I’ve never seen him eat it.

He doesn’t say anything, just purses his lips, and sighs.

“You can have a piece if you behave,” she says sweetly.

For a moment, it is as if the other two of us in this kitchen don’t even exist. Grandpa reaches out one shaky hand, tracing my grandmother’s tattoo, and she takes a step forward. His hand settles on her arm, and he looks back at me with watery eyes.

“Okay,” he says calmly, and she grins.

“Have a seat,” she says as she turns away, heading for the pie. I watch intently as Grandpa takes a seat next to Mason. He doesn’t say anything, but maybe that’s a good thing.

Grandma sets the pie down in front of him, and I don’t miss the way his eyes widen like saucers.

“So, do ya have a name, or do I just call you Pumpkin Thief?” Grandpa bites.

Mason chuckles. “It’s Mason. Mason Vance.”

Mason lets go of my hand, and I shovel a bite of pie into my mouth as Grandma sits next to me.

She settles her hand on my thigh and squeezes lightly under the table where no one can see.

I appreciate her warm gesture, but then again, Grandma’s always been like that.

She’s always been the one person in my life who just knew what I needed.

“And what do you do, besides steal pumpkins that don’t belong to you?” Grandpa asked.

Mason shrugs, cutting a chunk of pie with his fork.

“Well, I used to do a bit of modeling, and now, when I’m not entertaining pissy old pumpkin farmers, I work at The Grind.

” He gracefully downs the bite with more poise than I could ever hope to display when eating something as delicious as Grandma’s pie.

“Besides, technically I was given the pumpkin. You’re the thief who broke into my house and stole him. ”

Grandpa stops with his fork mid-air as Grandma curses.

“I thought you said he was on the porch, Robert.” She sighs in exasperation.

Grandpa waves his hand as he purses his lips. “Does it matter? It all worked out in the end, didn’t it?”

Mason is the first to laugh, breaking the tension. “Guess not.”