‘It’s had one … I can’t promise it passed.’

‘Noel!’

He laughs. ‘I’m joking. Of course it passed. It’s fine, just a bit of superficial damage, doesn’t affect the running of it. None of us would be roadworthy if that was the case.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Are you coming or are you going to stand there all day? You’re letting the cold air in.’

‘Your window …’ I go to protest that his window’s open so the cold air has come in anyway, but I give up before I can finish the sentence and climb into the truck.

A festive radio station is playing quietly from the dashboard, Bing Crosby singing ‘Silver Bells’, a real old-fashioned Christmas song that makes me shiver with nostalgia. The brown leather of the front is one long bench rather than individual seats, and in the space between us is another travel mug and a paper bag with ‘Roscoe Farm’ printed on it.

‘I brought coffee and breakfast,’ he says as I pull the fraying seatbelt over my chest and snap it into the buckle beside me. ‘Homemade pumpkin spice latte and a pumpkin spice muffin fresh from the oven.’

‘Oh my god, you are my favourite person in the universe right now.’ The blue travel cup has got foxes and autumn leaves on it, and I grab it and sip it.

I feel every part of me relax as that first sip of caffeine hits my system and Noel starts the engine again and backs slowly out of my driveway. ‘God, this is amazing,’ I say, making an orgasmic noise as I take a second sip. ‘And surprisingly strong.’

‘I firmly believe that people who don’t need a strong caffeine hit at this time of day are some species of pod person.’

I sip from the mug again, enjoying every hot mouthful as it warms me up from the inside out. This is literally the best coffee I’ve ever tasted. And Chelsea and I go out for a lot of coffee in London. ‘You make your own pumpkin spice for coffee? In big chains, they use syrup, right?’

‘That’s exactly why the homemade version is better.’ We back onto the main road and drive in the opposite direction from the way I came in, towards his farm. ‘And yeah, you mix up ginger, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and allspice, add fresh pumpkin puree and a touch of vanilla extract, and add it to any drink. It’s amazing in hot chocolate too.’

I sip it again. ‘You’re a genius.’

He laughs. ‘With eight thousand pumpkins a year, I’ve learnt how to make the best of them. But thank you, no one’s ever called me that before.’