Page 17 of The Pumpkin Pact
I aim for levity. “Says the man who once dated a woman who taxed him for being late to brunch.”
“She felt that fiscal responsibility was important,” Cole says solemnly. “Also, brunch is sacred.” He glances at Harper. “So, hypothetically. If two people in a very charming town in Vermont were fake -dating—purely for strategic purposes, obviously—and it started to feel less fake, would that be… a problem?”
Harper’s ears go a very appealing shade of pink. “Asking for a friend?”
“Friends,” Cole says innocently, gesturing between us.
I take mercy on all of us and change the subject before she can answer because she clearly is at a loss for words and doesn't want to answer. “Tour continues,” I announce. “Cole needs to see the covered bridge and the spot where Beatrice almost committed arson with a pumpkin spice candle.”
“Allegedly,” Harper says.
We close up for a lunch loop. Cole insists on carrying Harper’s tote like a chivalrous golden retriever. On the way out, Mr. Darcy leaps from the counter and lands on Cole’s shoulder like a pirate’s parrot, then rides there with supreme satisfaction to the front door.
“Traitor,” I tell the cat.
Harper laughs so hard she has to cling to the doorframe. “He’s chosen.”
“Obviously,” Cole says, walking carefully so as not to disturb his new monarch. “I will use my powers for good.”
We wander down Main Street. Cole points at storefronts and asks a thousand questions, each ridiculous. “Which lamppost is haunted by the ghost of bad parking? Where’s the best maple creme? If I proposed to someone under that tree, would a bluegrass band appear?” I have no idea where he comes up with this shit.
“Yes, Mel’s,” “the gas station, surprisingly,” and “absolutely, they live in the gazebo,” Harper answers, earning herself an approving nod.
We end up back at the diner because of hunger. Mom deposits us in a booth with sandwiches before we can object. Cole gives my mother a progress report on pumpkin-lifting eligibility, and she pretends to take notes.
“So, Morales,” Mom says, pouring coffee. “How long are you in town?”
“Couple of days,” he says. “Long enough to embarrass Dex and buy out Harper’s staff picks.”
“Ambitious,” Mom says, which is the Rowen word for I like you.
Cole gestures between Harper and me. “Do you two realize you talk like a married couple renovating a house? Half banter, half threats, and a shocking amount of competence.”
Harper points her straw at him. “We’re not married. We’re not renovating. We’re not dating.”
“Right,” Cole says, nodding earnestly. “And the air between you is not crackling. It’s perfectly inert. Silica gel.”
I rub my jaw to hide a smile. “Are you done?”
“Not even a little,” he says, delighted. "But I am for now."
The afternoon drifts warm and fast, like we’re all orbiting the same joke and none of us wants to land. Cole tells a story about Afghanistan, where he mistook a goat for a crashed drone at twilight, and I laugh until I wheeze. Harper counters with a tale about Mr. Darcy trapping a town councilman on a chair for thirty minutes because of a wool scarf he wanted.
“Good taste,” Cole says. “Never trust a man in summer wool.”
At some point, my ex -fiancée’s name tries to push up through the conversation like a weed. Harper doesn’t ask for it and I don’t offer. It’s enough that she knows the shape of the hole without poking it.
On our way back to the bookstore, the three of us pass Mrs. Henderson, who is already shepherding two teenagers into holding a ribbon while she eyeballs distances like a general mapping a battle. She gives us a look over her glasses that reads: I see you, and I will text everyone later.
“Run,” Harper whispers.
We do not run, but we speed up quickly.
Inside the shop, Cole reluctantly dismounts his feline epaulette. Mr. Darcy launches to the counter from his post above the register, turns his back to me, and curls his tail around Cole’s wrist in a move I believe is calledspite bonding.
“I’m wounded,” I tell him.
Harper steps beside me, shoulder brushing mine, voice pitched low. “For what it’s worth, I prefer you.”
