Page 4 of Pumpkins & Promises
"Peace offering," she says, holding up the basket. "Or bribery. I haven't decided which."
Inside are what look like homemade muffins, a jar of something that might be jam, and a thermos that smells like the kind of coffee that doesn't come from a grocery store.
"What's the occasion?" I ask.
"Guilt." She shifts the basket to her other arm. "I was kind of rude yesterday, and my mom raised me better than that. You're a guest on our property, and we don't usually greet guests by arguing with them about trespassing."
"I called you a trespasser first," I point out.
"True. But you're paying for the privilege of being here, and I was being territorial about my hiding spot." She hesitates. "Also, Dylan may have mentioned that you're going through a rough time, and I figured you probably don't need locals making it worse."
There's something careful about the way she says it, like she's not sure how much she's supposed to know or acknowledge. It's a refreshing change from the people who either pretend they've never heard of my recent disasters or bring them up immediately like we're old friends bonding over shared trauma.
"Well," I say, accepting the basket, "thank you. For the record, you weren't that rude. I've definitely encountered worse."
"High praise." Her mouth quirks up at one corner. "The muffins are apple cinnamon, the jam is from our orchard, and the coffee is from Novel Sips in town. Fair warning. It's strong enough to wake the dead."
"Perfect. I was starting to think the cabin coffee maker was plotting against me."
"It probably is. That thing's older than I am." She turns to go, then pauses. "Dylan mentioned you're a writer. Anything I might have read?"
The question every writer dreads and craves in equal measure. "Probably not. Literary fiction. Not exactly beach reading."
"Try me."
I study her face, looking for signs of recognition when I say, "Wesley Thorne."
Her eyebrows go up slightly. "Huh. I readThe Weight of Hoursa couple years ago. Depressing, but beautiful."
"That's actually a perfect review."
"Well, don't let it go to your head." But she's smiling now, and it transforms her entire face. "I'll let you get back to whatever moody masterpiece you're working on."
As she walks away, I realize I'm still standing in the doorway holding a basket of muffins and watching Emily Holloway's retreating figure like some kind of hermit who's forgotten how to interact with humans.
Which, to be fair, might not be entirely inaccurate either.
Two days later, I'm no closer to writing anything that doesn't sound like pretentious garbage, but I have discovered that Highland Hollow makes excellent coffee.
I'm sitting at a picnic table outside what Emily called the "orchard kitchen"—a converted barn where they apparently prep food for events—trying to convince myself that changing my writing location will somehow unlock my creative genius. Sofar, the only thing it's unlocked is the realization that I've been staring at the same paragraph for forty-five minutes.
The door to the barn opens, and Emily emerges with her arms full of what looks like event supplies. She's wearing jeans and a flannel shirt that's probably older than some of my books, and her dark hair is pulled back in a messy bun that suggests she's been working hard at something.
"Well, if it isn't the hermit writer," she says when she spots me. "Cabin fever drive you down the mountain?"
"Something like that." I close my laptop before she can see the pathetic word count on my screen. "Hope you don't mind me borrowing your Wi-Fi. Mine keeps cutting out."
"Rural internet. It's part of the authentic mountain experience." She sets down her supplies and wipes her hands on a dish towel. "How's the writing going?"
"Terribly, thanks for asking."
She laughs, and the sound is surprisingly warm. "At least you're honest about it. Most creative types I know would give me some speech about the artistic process and finding inspiration."
"Oh, I've tried that approach. Turns out my artistic process mostly involves staring at blank pages and questioning my life choices."
"Sounds familiar." She sits down across from me at the picnic table, and I catch a whiff of cinnamon and apples that seems to follow her everywhere. "Mind if I take a break? I've been organizing supplies for three hours, and I'm starting to see tablecloths in my sleep."
"Planning another festival?"
