Page 2 of Pumpkins & Promises
"Through Thanksgiving weekend."
"Perfect." I head toward the barn door, then pause. "What kind of writer?"
"The kind that's apparently famous enough to afford our rates but miserable enough to hide out in the mountains."
I snort. "Fantastic. A brooding artist. Just what this week needed."
As I walk away, I hear Dylan call after me. "Em? You know you can talk to me, right? About whatever's really bothering you?"
I don't turn around, because if I do, I might actually tell him. I might explain that watching him find his person has made me realize how completely alone I am. That I'm tired of being the one everyone depends on, the one who handles everything, the one who smiles and nods and makes sure everyone else's life runs smoothly while mine feels like it's held together with pumpkin-scented duct tape and caffeine.
Instead, I call back, "I'm fine, Dylan. Just tired."
It's not a lie, exactly. I am tired.
I'm just not sure a week in the mountains would have fixed it anyway.
The drive up to Pine Ridge takes exactly twelve minutes, which is just enough time for my irritation to simmer into full-blown righteous indignation. By the time I pull into the gravel driveway of our family's cabin, I've mentally composed at least three different speeches about boundaries and common courtesy that I'll probably never actually give Dylan.
The cabin looks the same as always. The log walls weathered to a soft gray, green metal roof, and a wraparound porch that's seen more family arguments than a therapist's office. What's different is the sleek black sedan parked where my beat-up Honda should be, and the soft glow of lights in the windows.
My lights. In my peaceful sanctuary.
I grab the spare key from under the third porch plank and let myself in, calling out, "Don't mind me, just grabbing some things I left here."
The response I get is not what I'm expecting.
"Unless you're the grocery delivery, you're trespassing."
The voice is deep, dry, and comes from the direction of the kitchen. I follow it and find myself face-to-face with a man who looks like he stepped out of a moody book cover. Tall, dark hair that's probably supposed to look artfully disheveled but just looks like he's been running his hands through it, and the kind of sharp jawline that suggests he's never gotten his hands dirty or worked a day of manual labor in his life.
He's standing at the kitchen island with what looks like a manuscript spread out in front of him, a laptop open, and a coffee mug that says "World's Okayest Writer" in faded letters. His gray sweater has the kind of soft, expensive look that screams "I shop somewhere that doesn't sell things in plasticbags," and he's looking at me like I'm the one who doesn't belong here.
"Trespassing?" I set my keys down with more force than necessary. "This is my family's cabin."
"Your family's cabin that I'm renting for the week." He doesn't move from his spot, just watches me with dark eyes that seem to catalog every detail. "Which makes you..."
"Emily Holloway." I cross my arms. "And you must be the sad writer my brother took pity on."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or irritation. "Wesley. And I prefer 'creatively challenged' to 'sad.'"
"Good to know." I move toward the bedroom, trying to ignore the way he's somehow made the entire cabin smell like expensive coffee and something woodsy that definitely didn't come from our usual Pine-Sol cleaning routine. "I'll just grab my things and get out of your way."
"What things?"
I pause at the bedroom doorway. "Excuse me?"
"What things are you grabbing?" He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms in a mirror of my own posture. "Because if this is some kind of setup where the cute local girl conveniently forgot something important and needs to interrupt the grumpy writer's solitude, I should warn you that I've read that book. Several times. I probably wrote it."
Heat rushes to my cheeks. "Setup? You think I—" I take a breath, reminding myself that murdering paying customers is bad for business. "Mr. Thorne, I can assure you that the last thing I want right now is to interact with anyone, let alone interrupt some brooding artist's creative process. I left my good sweaters here after our last family gathering, and since I'll need them for the upcoming week of family obligations, I'm retrieving them. That's it."
"The good sweaters," he repeats, and there's something almost amused in his voice now.
"Yes, the good sweaters. The ones that make me look like I have my life together instead of like I've been wrestling pumpkins for the past month." I disappear into the bedroom before he can respond, grabbing the cardigan and wool pullover I'd left hanging in the closet.
When I come back out, Wesley is still standing in the same spot, but now he's holding a steaming mug.
"Coffee?" he offers, and I'm surprised by the gesture.
