Page 15 of The Pumpkin Pact
“He absolutely hates me,” I cut in, holding out my arm like evidence. “Scratched me yesterday for the crime of existing near his royal whiskers.”
Harper and Cole laugh. “Mr. Darcy will deliver. It all depends on his mood,” Harper says. She looks at me out of the corner of her eye, and whatever we left hanging last night hovers between us like a neon sign only we can see.
After scarfing down his breakfast, Cole throws down some cash. “Show me your kingdom, my friend,” Cole says, clapping his hands. “I want the walking tour. Point out historic landmarks and places where you broke bones. Preferably in that order.”
“Sure,” I say, mostly to stop my mother from loaning him a megaphone. “We’ll loop Main Street and end at The Wandering Page.” I turn to Harper. "See you later?" and she nods.
“Lead the way, my friend.” Cole gestures toward the door with a grin. “Pleasure meeting you, Harper. I’ll see you around.”
Outside, Hollow Creek does its best impression of a Hallmark movie that remembered to be a little sarcastic. Cole whistles at the gingerbread trim and the porch pumpkins, nods approvingly at the window boxes, and takes photos like an influencer on a foliage bender.
“Okay,” he says, pausing in front of the gazebo, “give me the Dex Tour. What’s that?”
“The scene of my greatest triumph,” I say. “I once convinced the council to buy new benches instead of painting the old ones beige.”
Cole points at the square. “And that?”
“Where the Winter Jubilee snowman contest ended in an intergenerational snowball fight,” I say. “A seven--year--old accused the quilting guild of structural doping.”
Cole snorts into his coffee. “Did they use rebar?”
"Fifty pounds of it. I was surprised they could walk with all that weight."
Cole nods solemnly. “I respect the game.” He falls into step next to me, his eyes pinging from my face to her shop like he’s lining up a shot. “So. You two.”
“Nope,” I say.
“Uh--huh,” Cole says, miserably unfooled. “And yet the air crackles like a radio picking up a storm when you are within a hundred yards of each other..”
“We’re friends,” I say, aiming for bored. “Co--chairs of the festival committee. That's all.”
“With vibes,” he says.
I kick a leaf into a perfect spiral. “Your vibe must be broken.”
Cole laughs under his breath and lets it go, because he is merciful when he wants to be. We cut across to the bookstore, and the bell over the door does its little hymn as we step in. The Wandering Page smells like paper and musk and some citrus thing that makes my brain short--circuit every time.
Mr. Darcy is already assembled on the counter, a tuxedo god inconvenienced by the existence of the rest of the world. He flicks his mustache at me, then rotates his head to consider Cole.
“Your Grace,” I say diplomatically.
Mr. Darcy ignores me with his whole body.
Cole steps forward, hands at his sides, military -slow. “Sir,” he says gravely. “It’s an honor.”
Mr. Darcy extends one paw and taps Cole’s sleeve like he’s been knighted. Then the cat—traitorously—head-butts Cole’s knuckles and emits a soft approving chirp.
Harper gasps. “He likes you.”
“He does,” Cole says in wonder. “It’s because I respect his authority.” He doesn’t move for a solid thirty seconds, letting the cat set the terms, and is rewarded with a tidy, pleased purr.
I put my hands on my hips. “So he hates me and loves you. That seems unfair.” I turn to the cat. “I’ve cleaned up your stinky poop, bought you toys, and even slipped you wet food when your mom wasn’t looking. And this is how you reward me—by falling for a complete stranger?”
“Is that why his vet scolded me? He’s gained five pounds, and I swear I’m only giving him diet food,” Harper says.
“You know what? Fine. If Mr. Darcy insists on hating me, then I’ll just hate him right back,” I declare with stubborn finality.
Harper rests her elbows on the counter, smile tucked at the corner like she’s trying not to make it worse. “Mr. Darcy is a complicated man. He appreciates discipline.”
