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My editor at Mountain Fork loves them. Diane called yesterday while I was in the barn, standing between apple crates, smelling like cider and hay.

"Poppy, these are stunning. The Connors farm spread is the strongest piece in the series. We want to feature it as the cover story. Full issue. Lead position."

Cover story. Lead position. Two years of freelancing, building my portfolio town by town, and this is the break.

Then she said the rest.

"We're also pulling together a winter series. Small-town holiday markets, ski lodges, mountain towns in December. Same format, same feel. Colorado and Wyoming, six weeks, starting mid-November. First choice goes to the photographer who's already proven the concept. That's you, Poppy."

Six weeks. Colorado. Wyoming. Starting in three weeks.

The opportunity sits in my inbox right now, a formal email with the contract attached, deadline to respond by Sunday. I haven't opened the attachment. Haven't mentioned it to Deck.

He's outside fixing the barn door, which has been sticking since the rain. The sound of the drill carries through the kitchen window. Steady, rhythmic. The sound of a man who builds things that stay.

My phone buzzes.

Mom:

How's the farmer? You haven't called in two days. I'm assuming you're either dead or happy. Text me which one.

Me:

Happy. Busy. I'll call tonight.

Mom:

You staying for the Harvest Festival this weekend?

Me:

That's the plan.

Mom:

And after the festival?

After the festival. After the spread is shot, the series is filed, the assignment that brought me here is complete. After there's no professional reason to drive up this dirt road every morning with coffee from Maggie's.

My chest squeezes.

Two weeks. That's how long I've known Deck Connors. Fourteen days since I fell off his crates and landed on my back in the squash. Not long enough to restructure a life. Not long enough to make decisions that matter.

Except it feels long enough. Waking up in his bed feels long enough. Cooking in his kitchen feels long enough. The way he reaches for me at night, pulling me against his chest without waking up, his arm tightening in his sleep. That feels like forever already.

The drill stops. Boot steps on the porch. He comes into the kitchen, sawdust on his forearms, sweat darkening the collar of his thermal. Takes the coffee I poured for him. Drinks half of it standing.

"Barn door's fixed," he says.

"Good."

"Festival setup starts tomorrow morning. Hilda's bringing the cider barrels at seven. Maggie's sending pies over in the afternoon. I'll need to get the tables out of the workshop."

"I can help with setup."

He nods. Finishes the coffee. Sets the mug down. His eyes move to my laptop screen, the editing software open, the gallery of farm photos scrolling through the preview panel.

"Those going to the magazine?"