Page 13 of The Pumpkin Pact
“Burlap says rustic but not sad,” Beatrice counters.
“Burlap always says sad,” I say. “Let’s do orange satin and black velvet accents.”
“Velvet is a lot,” Dolly says, delighted.
“Good,” I say. “We are a lot.”
Dex’s phone buzzes. He checks it, thumbs moving. “It’s Gary. He says to meet him about the spider boxes at eight sharp. Also, he says ‘Tell your mother the apple crisp cured his seasonal affective disorder.’”
“Add him to the poetry open mic,” I say.
Dex leans back after scribbling a few more notes, then tucks his notebook aside. "Enough logistics for one day," he says. "If we keep planning, Mrs. Henderson will draft us into a couple’s costume workshop."
I lean in so only he can hear. “Pact check,” I whisper. “Optics until the vote.”
He meets my eyes, steadily. “Optics until the vote,” he says, and taps the edge of my mug like a seal. The word settles behind my ribs like a promise I’m not ready to name.
I laugh, surprised. “You’re right. Let’s talk about literally anything else.”
He studies me for a moment, then says, “One of my old Army buddies is swinging through Vermont this week. Thought he’d stop in Hollow Creek, maybe catch the festival. Haven’t seen him in years.”
“That’s good,” I say. “It’ll be nice for you to have someone who isn’t trying to color--code your life to talk to.”
He smiles at that. “You make it sound like a crime.”
“Sometimes it is,” I tease, then soften. “I get it though. I miss my best friend, Amy. She’s in California right now with her family, sending me photos of beaches while I’m drowning in debt and cider.”
“Sounds brutal,” he says. His voice is gentle. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “Just wish she were here. Everything feels bigger when you don’t have your person to vent to.”
There’s a quiet beat between us. The diner hum fades, and for once no one interrupts—but I can still feel every set of eyes sneaking glances our way, like the whole town is waiting for us to confirm their favorite new rumor.
Then Dex tilts his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes, like he’s trying to puzzle me out. “So… why did you tell everyone we’re dating?”
My fork clatters against the plate, and I freeze, panic racing through me. “I was kidding,” I blurt quickly, voice a little too high. “Clearly. Totally kidding.”
He arches a brow, curiosity flickering again. “I don’t think the entire diner thought you were kidding. In fact, by now the whole town probably knows. Word travels here faster than a leaf in the October wind.”
Heat creeps up my neck, horror crashing over me as the realization sinks in. “Oh no. They didn’t. Tell me the whole town isn’t talking about this already?”
He grins, wicked and amused. “Probably.”
Terror floods through me. I press a hand to my face. “They’re probably already planning a wedding hashtag,” I groan, imagining Mrs. Henderson brainstorming puns like #DexAndTheCity or #DarcyApproves. The thought makes me want to crawl under the booth and never come out.
“Would dating me really be that bad?” he asks, quieter now, a flicker of something almost hurt in his eyes, curiosity laced with vulnerability, like he genuinely wants the answer but is bracing himself in case it’s one he doesn’t want to hear.
I open my mouth, then close it again. My pulse stutters, fingers tightening on my fork like it’s the only thing anchoring me. Covering, I wave a hand, trying for nonchalance and failing. “Of course not. You’re… you. But we're just friends.” My chesttightens, heat rising to my cheeks, because what I want to say—what’s practically clawing at my throat—isI wish we actually were dating.
He studies me, eyes steady, like he hears everything I’m not saying. His mouth curves like he wants to believe me but isn’t sure he does. “Just friends,” he repeats slowly, as if filing it away in a drawer he intends to open again later.
Before I can dig myself any deeper in the hole, Dolly shrieks at the counter about headbands and the spell breaks. Dex drops money on the table and slides out of the booth, all easy confidence and infuriatingly handsome. His shoulders stretch that flannel in a way that should be criminal, and I have to look away before my face gives me up. I gather my papers like they can shield me from my own heart, wishing they could also hide the fact that I think he’s the sexiest man alive.
Outside, the sky is a polished blue--gray fading toward evening. We walk side by side, so close our hands almost brush, and my heart pounds at the thought. For the first time since Vernon’s first email slithered into my inbox, I believe we might actually pull this off—the festival, at least. The fake -dating part feels far less fake every time Dex looks at me like that, and it leaves me both horrified the town won’t let it go and secretly thrilled that maybe I don’t want them to. Hopefully, I can survive both Vernon and Hollow Creek’s matchmaking attempts and I get to keep walking beside him.
Chapter 4
Dex
