Page 7

Mason

I squint my eyes tight against the blazing sun streaming through my curtains. My head throbs, and I let go of the pumpkin I’m hugging to press my hand to my aching—

Wait … I let go of the pumpkin? I jerk fully awake and sit up, catching the pumpkin before it can roll off the bed. How did it end up in bed with me, wrapped in my robe?

Note to self: Lay off the sleeping pills.

I throw off the covers and discover that, in addition to fondling my pumpkin during the night, I also had a vivid wet dream while I slept. I’d thought it was just a lonely man’s horny dream, but when I look down, my dick drips sticky cum that I’ve somehow managed to smear all over myself. Fuck.

Second note to self: Also lay off the wine at bedtime.

The dream, which seemed so real, lingers in my mind. I know there was no hot, beefy man in my bed last night, not really, but I can almost still feel his touch, almost still smell the fucking pumpkin spice smell, almost still hear him talking to me.

Since I’m already late, I rush through a shower and slip into some clothes before flying out the door, leaving the pumpkin on the bed.

To her credit, the manager only chews me out for the first thirty minutes of my belated shift.

I can handle a half hour of scathing comments.

What I can’t handle is waking up cuddling a pumpkin, of all things.

What happened, anyway? All I really remember is talking to the pumpkin, to Jack—No, Jax— before I fell asleep.

Why did I suddenly change the pumpkin’s name to Jax?

The questions simmer in the back of my mind all day, but I have no answers. I don’t remember bringing the pumpkin to bed with me, and aside from my wet dream, I have no memory of calling the pumpkin anything but Jack.

Jax sounds so much more … right, though.

The customers come and go, and I make it through the day on pure autopilot.

After work, I head to the store. I know my fridge is pretty bare, and for some reason I get the feeling I should take care of that now rather than later.

Not that I get many houseguests, but I suppose it’s the principle of it all.

I fill the cart with the usual suspects: granola bars, quinoa, healthy stuff.

Then, just as I’m about to check out, I find myself staring at a display of warm, fresh-baked apple pies.

For some reason, they look amazing. I grab a pie, then circle around to the freezer section for some vanilla ice cream to go with them.

Pie a la mode sounds great, though I know it’s gonna go straight to my hips.

I add some whipped cream to the cart, then go check out.

The cashier looks at all my healthy food like it’s garbage then raises an eyebrow at the final dessert. “That’s … interesting,” she comments as she scans my pie. “Doesn’t quite jive with the rest of your stuff.”

Not that it’s any of her business. I shrug it off. “It just looks really good.”

“You know, Appleseed’s Orchard has fresh apple pies that are way better than these store ones. You should go try them out.”

Why does that farm sound familiar? “No, thanks. I’ll just take these. It’s just to fulfill a craving. No point in driving somewhere else when all I want is a taste.”

For some reason, the idea of going to the apple farm feels almost like cheating. I know I only went to the pumpkin farm that one time, but I have this weird feeling like I should remain loyal to the pumpkin farm with its odd elderly couple that runs the place.

I get home just before dark and start unloading the car. The ice cream goes in the freezer while I set the pie on the windowsill to cool a bit more while I fix dinner.

The quinoa is just about ready when a loud thump from the bedroom startles me. I jump back from the stove and run to check on that sound. I hope my pumpkin didn’t roll off! I feel oddly attached to the thing, and I’d hate for it to get smashed.

To my dismay, the pumpkin’s not on the bed anymore when I rush in. Fuck.

“Oh, shit, Jax! I’m so sorry, dude. I didn’t think you’d roll off …” My voice trails off as a naked man stands up on the opposite side of the bed, rubbing his head like he bumped it on the nightstand or something.

It’s the beefcake from my dream!

It’s the beefcake from my dream … naked … in my room.

“How did you get in my house?” I shout, my voice shaking more than I mean it to. The question that I’d intended to sound intimidating comes out more timid and awkward. No way I’d scare this guy outta my house like that.

But do I really want to scare him away? He’s buff and toned and has that sexy two-day scruff on his chin and …

“Please, wait! I can explain!” He holds his hands over his crotch before grabbing my robe from the bed to cover himself.

The fuzzy fabric slides over his toned muscles, and I’m a little disappointed that he’s donning clothes.

I kinda liked staring at him, intruder or not.

His green gaze catches mine, eyebrows furrowing in panic.

For an intruder, he seems almost as panicked as I am.

“How did you get in?” I ask again, a little sterner this time. “And what did you do with the pumpkin that was on the bed?”

The beefcake blushes and holds the robe closed. “Please, Mason, just give me a chance to explain.”

How does he know my name?

“You’ve got two minutes before I call the cops.”

“Mason, please ! You brought me in here yourself. Carried me right into this bedroom. Please remember.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I think I’d remember carrying you over the threshold into my house,” I mutter, annoyed. “I may work out, but there’s no way I could carry you. You’re …” Built. Stacked. Hung. “You’re a fully-grown man.”

“I wasn’t when you brought me in here,” he says. “I was a pumpkin.”

Wait … what?

“That’s ridiculous. People aren’t pumpkins.”

He grunts with frustration. “I was, though. Er, am … I was the pumpkin from the Gallagher farm. Please, Mason, I’m not lying.”

I wish he’d stop saying my name. It would make it easier for me to kick him out on his toned ass.

“That makes absolutely no sense. A pumpkin. Psh.” I make a show of rolling my eyes at the notion, but all I can think about is how crazy somebody would have to be to make this up.

A pumpkin! What kind of nutso comes up with that?

And how nuts am I for considering it?

“Just think about it. Where did I come from, and where’s your pumpkin now? We’re the same person. Thing. We’re the same.”

My eyes narrow at him. “What did you do with my pumpkin?”

“Would you forget the damned pumpkin? I am the pumpkin!”

“Prove it.”

He sighs and lowers his head. “I can’t. Not until daybreak.”

“What happens at daybreak?”

“Never mind,” he says. “Just never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

I’d ask him more, but his stomach breaks the awkward silence by rumbling loudly. “Dude, have you eaten?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Like, a granola bar. That’s about all I’ve had in the past two days.”

I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.

“Well, I’ve got some quinoa on the stove. Come on. We’ll at least get you fed.”

The stranger looks at me with doubt written all over his ruggedly handsome face. “You’re actually gonna feed me? You’re not gonna call the cops on me for showing up out of nowhere?”

“Against my better judgment, yeah.” I gesture for him to follow me. “C’mon. Food first. Questions later, I guess.”