Page 10 of Pumpkins & Promises
"This is going to be interesting," I finally say.
"What is?"
"Thanksgiving. If tonight was just a practice round, I can't imagine what the full family circus is going to be like."
Wesley laughs. "How bad could it be?"
"Famous last words," I say, but I'm smiling too.
But neither of us moves to leave, and when the autumn breeze picks up, I don't protest when Wesley shifts closer on the bench. We sit there under the stars, both of us pretending this is just two friends getting comfortable with their arrangement.
"We should probably head back," I say eventually.
"Probably," Wesley agrees, but neither of us stands up right away.
Chapter Four
Wesley
I'm standing in Highland Hollow's main field, watching Emily organize what she calls a "Friendsgiving picnic" with the efficiency of a military general, and trying to remember the last time I voluntarily attended a community event.
The answer is never. I don't do community events.
But here I am, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt that Emily insisted made me look "approachably outdoorsy," holding a plate of her apple cider donuts and wondering how I got roped into this.
"You're brooding," Emily says, appearing at my elbow with two cups of hot cider. "It's very obvious brooding. People are going to think I'm dating a vampire."
"I don't brood."
"You're literally doing it right now. There's actual brooding happening on your face." She hands me a cup, her fingers brushing mine in a way that sends an unexpected jolt through me. "Relax. It's just a few games and some food. Think of it as research for your book."
"Right. Research." I take a sip of cider and watch as families spread blankets on the grass and kids run between the appletrees. "What exactly am I researching? The social dynamics of rural recreational activities?"
"Community bonding. The way people connect over shared experiences." Emily waves at someone across the field. "You said you wanted to write about human connection, right? This is it in action."
Before I can respond, Dylan appears with a cornhole board under each arm, looking far too pleased with himself.
"Perfect timing," he says, dropping the boards with a thud. "We need teams for the tournament. You two are up first."
"Tournament?" I look at Emily, who's suddenly avoiding eye contact. "You didn't mention a tournament."
"It's just for fun," she says quickly. "Very casual. No big deal."
"First prize is a fifty-dollar gift certificate to The Copper Kettle," Dylan adds, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "Plus bragging rights until Christmas."
I've never played cornhole in my life. I'm not even entirely sure what cornhole is, beyond the vague understanding that it involves throwing things at holes.
"I should probably sit this one out," I say. "I'm not really the competitive games type."
"Come on," Emily says, and there's something in her voice that makes me look at her more closely. "We could be good at this. I can tell."
The thing is, she looks genuinely excited. Not about the game, necessarily, but about us playing together. About being a team.
And despite every instinct telling me this is a terrible idea, I find myself nodding.
"Okay. But when we lose spectacularly, I'm blaming you."
"When we win," Emily corrects, "you're buying me dinner with our prize money."
