Page 10 of The Pumpkin Pact
Beatrice adds, “Talking points: library annex, safe wiring, vendor sales, kid zones. Every ‘aww’ must come with a QR code.”
Harper’s mouth tilts. “Ground rules,” she says, steady now, looking at me. “No ambushing each other. No using this to win personal arguments. If either of us says ‘pause,’ we pause. And we tell each other the truth even when it’s messy.”
“Deal,” I say, before my better judgment can slow me down. The word lands in my chest and settles like something that’s wanted to live there.
Mom nods, satisfied. “Good. Then, tomorrow morning at nine, meet at Mel’s booth under the fern. I’ll ‘accidentally’ deliver apple pies.” She caps her pen. “Remember: stories beat dirt—if you give people one worth repeating.”
In the hallway, someone laughs; outside, Main Street glows warm as a hearth. Harper slides the legal pad toward me and writes in neat, deliberate letters:Optics until the vote.She underlines it once, then meets my eyes.
“We win,” I say quietly.
“We win,” she echoes, and for the first time it feels like a plan.
Chapter 3
Harper
Mel’s Diner is the beating heart of Hollow Creek gossip, which is why I should’ve known better than to agree to meet Dex here for a 'quick vendor check-in'. Quick doesn’t exist in this booth--lined coliseum of chatter. The second I walk in, the bell jingles like a boxing match starting, and every head swivels in my direction. Wonderful.
Mrs. Henderson waves from a corner booth as if I’m the headliner of a Broadway show. “Harper! Over here!” she trills. The Williamson twins are already perched with pie at the counter, looking like they’ve rehearsed their synchronized eyebrow raises for this very moment. Dolly and Beatrice flank the counter, armed with coffee and clipboards. Even Eleanor Rowen—Dex’s mother and Hollow Creek’s unofficial general—is behind the counter wielding a pie server like a sword.
“Dex,” I hiss under my breath as he holds the door. “You didn’t tell me you invited the entire Greek chorus for optics.” He smirks, infuriatingly unbothered. “Thought you liked efficiency.”
Play the plan. Do it for the annex fund. “Efficiency is three emails and a color--coded spreadsheet, not the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Sit,” Eleanor orders, pointing her pie server toward a booth that’s already set with two mugs of coffee. One black, Dex’s; one with cream and sugar, mine. Of course, she knows our coffee order by heart. This trip is feeling more and more like some sort of setup.
Right. Beat one: booth by the window, coffees preloaded, friendly audience. Eleanor’s notes to the letter. Play the plan.
I slide into the booth, Dex opposite me. Mr. Darcy is not here, thank God, but I can feel his spirit judging my life choices from afar, and right now I would have to agree with him.
“So,” Mrs. Henderson says, leaning forward like she’s about to hear state secrets. “When did the two of you finally admit you were destined to be together?”
I choke on coffee, spilling some of it down my chin and some on the table. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, don’t be coy,” Dolly says, twirling her pen and wiggling her eyebrows like a cartoon matchmaker.
I catch the movement and groan, while Dex actually chokes back a laugh into his coffee. “We all saw you leaving the shop together every night this week. You looked very cozy.”
“Carrying signage,” Dex clarifies. Dry as dust. “And a cat carrier. That’s all.”
“Symbolic!” Beatrice declares.
I press a hand to my forehead and wave my free one as if I can physically stop this gossip freight train. “We’re not—this is not?—”
“They’re co--chairing the festival,” Eleanor cuts in smoothly, as if she’s announcing an engagement. “Which is practically the same thing.”
Laughter ripples around the diner. I consider crawling under the table and living there forever, maybe even pulling the tablecloth with me for camouflage. Dex, the traitor, hides a grin in his mug, and I fling him a glare sharp enough to cutdiamonds. I will kill him without thinking twice about it—better yet, I’ll let Mr. Darcy handle him, claws and all.
“Fine,” I say, because clearly denial will not save me. “Yes, we’re working together. No, it’s not romantic. We’re simply two professionals with complementary skills.”
“Mm-hmm,” Mrs. Henderson hums and nods her head, writing something in her notebook. Probably planning our wedding date, where we’re going to live, and how many babies we’re having. Spoiler: zero because we’re not dating.
Eleanor sets down two plates of pie—apple for Dex, pumpkin for me. “Eat. You’ll need your strength to fight off that leech. Vernon’s been sniffing around again.”
“Like a bloodhound in Armani,” Dolly mutters.
“More like a vulture,” I say, stabbing my pie. “But the festival’s going to shut him down. We’ll have numbers, donors, press... the works just in time for the next town council meeting. He can’t bulldoze community spirit, and the town council will see that.”
