He’s quiet a moment. “Do you know mine?” Honestly curious.

“Is it Kincaid?”

“No.”

We laugh again, and all we can do is kiss, and all he wants to do is get his hands under my clothes, which is fantastic except for the shocks of goose bumps leaping across my skin every time my shirt rides up. “It’s so cold,” I say in his ear.

We cross the bridge to the far side, the couples’ side, where I’ve never been. And we’re not picky—the ground works. Off the path, partly shielded by the branches of a blue spruce. He takes his coat off and lays it over us, his heat enveloping me, his weight, his kisses on my stomach, his fingers finding the hooks of my worn-out bra with the skill of an experienced bra finder, a worry for another time, and there are so many parts of him I want to touch, to kiss, to know.

After we hit the point where I whisper, “We should stop”—the last thing I want, but still—he groans and drops over onto his side, nuzzling under my jaw, kissing down my throat, tickling, making me laugh.

As we cross back over the bridge together, he holds my hand in both of his, rubbing my fingers, warming them as we move together, like I’m holding him up. I feel flushed, rumpled, thoroughly explored. I don’t know how far is too far for the first time touching a guy, how much I should’ve given him, why it even needs to be played that way, like awarding points or something. All I know is that I inhabit an entirely different skin from the one I wore before, one that never knew the feeling of his lips kissing just below the line of my underwear.

Our row of jack-o’-lanterns grins back at us, beginning to wizen, black mold speckling the corners of their mouths and eyes. “Where’s Ivy’s?” I’m not sure I’ve even spoken aloud until I feel Kincaid’s new stillness, his head leaned against mine. “Her pumpkin. It’s not there anymore.”

We stop by the space where it once sat. “Somebody probably knocked it off.” Sounds like his thoughts are still back there, in the trees.

“Do lots of people come here?”

“Not lots. I find beer cans and stuff sometimes.”

I go to the railing and look down, as if the jack-o’-lantern might still be bobbing below us, then examine the next one, Trace’s. “What the hell?” I laugh. “Somebody stole our offerings, too.”

The jack-o’-lanterns have been completely cleaned out. Even the cold sore treatment is gone. Kincaid rests his forearms on the railing, his gaze keen as he watches me. “Guess he must’ve been pleased. Maybe he’ll go easy on us this year.”