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"The landscapes, yeah. She wants the cover story."

Something shifts in his face. Subtle, fast. "Full issue?"

"Lead position. The Connors farm spread."

He looks at me. Holds my gaze longer than usual. There's a question in his eyes he doesn't ask. Then he turns, rinses the mug, puts it in the rack. Goes back outside.

The screen door closes behind him.

My phone rings. Diane again.

"Poppy, quick follow-up. I need to confirm your availability for the winter series by Monday. Colorado first, then Jackson Hole. We've got lodging arranged. Same day rate plus a bump for the expanded scope."

"Monday."

"Ideally sooner. The other photographer I'd consider is available, but you're my first choice. This could be a recurring contract, Poppy. Quarterly features. Steady income. The kind of gig that turns freelance into a career."

Steady income. Recurring contract. A career instead of a hustle. Everything I've been working toward for two years. The email glows on my screen.

"I'll get back to you," I say.

Saturday. The Harvest Festival.

The farm transforms. Hilda arrives with two barrels of cider, a fold-out table, and enough opinions to fill a courtroom. Maggie sends pies with a teenage delivery driver who takes one look at Deck and nearly drops the boxes. The tables come out of the workshop, hay bales get arranged in rows, string lights go up between the barn and the fence posts.

Deck works without stopping. Setting up the pumpkin display, hauling squash to the tables, arranging the apple crates. He speaks when spoken to. Answers questions. Directs traffic. Not once does he look at me the way he's been looking at me all week.

Something's off. The distance showed up yesterday after the cover story conversation, quiet and measured, and it hasn't left. He's not cold. He's careful. Controlled. Putting space between us with the precision of a man who's practiced at it.

The festival opens at ten. By noon, the farm is full. Families, couples, groups of friends. The pumpkin patch is overrun with kids. Hilda's cider table has a line. Maggie's pies are half gone.

I photograph everything. The crowd, the colors, the mountains behind the string lights. Deck among his customers, selling pumpkins, recommending squash, quiet and steady. He's good at this in the same way he's good at everything. Competent without performance.

A woman my age stops at his table. Blonde, tall, pretty in an outdoorsy way. She asks about apple varieties. He answers. She touches his arm when she laughs. His expression doesn't change, but he doesn't pull away either.

Something hot and ugly twists in my stomach. Irrational. Petty. He's selling apples. She's a customer. But his arm is where my fingers have been, where my mouth has been, and watching someone else touch it makes my skin crawl.

I lower the camera. Walk to the orchard where nobody's wandered yet. Lean against a Winesap tree, close my eyes.

This is the problem. This is what two weeks does. It makes you territorial about a man who isn't yours. Makes you forget that you came here for a magazine spread and the magazine spread is done.

Boots on grass. My eyes open. He's standing three feet away, hands in his pockets, watching me with the expression I've been trying to read since Wednesday.

"You've been quiet today," he says.

"You've been distant."

His jaw tightens. "I'm working the festival."

"You're avoiding me."

"Poppy."

"Don't Poppy me. You haven't looked at me in two days. Not really. Not the way you were looking at me on Thursday."

The muscles in his forearms flex. His hands come out of his pockets. Go back in.

"Your editor called yesterday," he says. "I heard the phone ring."