Page 23 of Pumpkins & Promises
Three weeks after Thanksgiving, I'm sitting at the kitchen table in the cabin that's become more home than anywhere I've lived in years, watching snow fall outside the windows and actually writing.
Not struggling with words or staring at blank pages or questioning every sentence until it loses all meaning. Just writing. The story is flowing like it hasn't in months, maybe years.
It's about a man who thinks he knows what he wants until he discovers what he needs. About finding authenticity in the last place you'd expect to look. About pumpkins and second chances and the kind of love that sneaks up on you disguised as convenience.
My phone buzzes with a text from Oscar:Publishers love the new pages. Want to discuss a three-book deal. Also, that small-town angle is testing incredibly well with focus groups.
I delete the message without responding. For the first time in my career, I'm writing something that matters more to me than market research.
The front door opens, bringing a gust of cold air and the sound of Emily's laughter.
"I’m here for coffee," she calls out, stomping snow off her boots. "I’m stealing yours."
"Help yourself," I call back, saving my document. "How's the Christmas prep going?"
Emily appears in the kitchen doorway wearing one of my sweaters over her jeans. It's the third one that's mysteriously migrated from my closet to hers, not that I'm complaining. She looks perfect in gray cashmere.
"Mom's in full holiday mode," Emily says, pouring herself coffee from the pot I made an hour ago. "She wants to do a Christmas Eve party this year, which means I get to coordinate food for forty people while maintaining my sanity."
"Sounds like you need an assistant."
"Are you volunteering?" She perches on the edge of the table, close enough that I can smell the apple-cinnamon scent that always seems to follow her.
"I'm thinking about it." I lean back in my chair, studying her face. "Actually, I'm thinking about a lot of things."
"Such as?"
"Such as extending my stay at the cabin. Indefinitely."
Emily sets down her coffee mug carefully. "Indefinitely?"
"I talked to the landlord yesterday. Apparently, he's willing to negotiate a long-term lease with the right tenant." I reach for her hand. "Especially if that tenant is dating his daughter."
"You talked to my dad about renting the cabin?"
"I talked to your dad about a lot of things. Including whether he'd mind having a reformed city writer hanging around permanently."
Emily's smile starts slow and spreads across her entire face. "And what did he say?"
"He said as long as I keep making you happy and help with the heavy lifting during festivals, I'm welcome to stay as long as I want."
"Just like that?"
"Well, there may have been some discussion about my intentions and whether I understand what I'm getting myself into, dating a Holloway woman."
"And do you?" Emily slides off the table and into my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck. "Understand what you're getting yourself into?"
"I understand that I'm getting myself into the best decision I've ever made."
When Emily kisses me, I taste snow and coffee and the promise of every morning I want to wake up in this place, with this woman, writing stories that matter because she's in them.
"So you're really staying?" she asks when we break apart.
"I'm really staying. If that's okay with you."
"Wesley Thorne, I carved you a pumpkin that said 'stay.' I think it's safe to say it's okay with me."
Two days later, I'm sitting on Emily's front porch, holding a wrapped package and trying not to feel nervous about giving someone a gift that means more to me than any book deal or review ever has.
