Page 2 of The Pumpkin Pact
“That’s acceptance,” I say. “He’s a boundaries guy.”
Mr. Darcy turns his back with the slow, disdainful precision of a French waiter.
“Festival check-in?” Dex asks. He glances at the clipboard I’ve decorated with pumpkin stickers and an aggressively cheerfulWE’VE GOT THIS!in bubble letters.
“We do not check in; we strategize,” I say, even though we absolutely check in. “How’s the vendor list coming along?”
“Twenty--seven confirmed,” he says. “Food trucks are squared away. I did finally track down the guy with the maple cotton candy machine—he’s in. We just need to finalize placement and power.”
“Excellent,” I say, scribbling. “And the music?”
“Moonlight Bluegrass can do a two--hour set. We’ve got the high school jazz band at three. And your poetry open mic…” He looks at me, amused. “Are you sure about that?”
“Yes,” I say firmly. “Last year’s slam about seasonal affective disorder changed lives.”
“It made my uncle buy a sunlamp,” he admits. “Okay. What about security?”
“That’s all on you,” I say. “Just please keep the book club from zip -tying Vernon to the gazebo.”
Dex’s eyes flick to the front window. Across the street, Vernon Blackstone himself is conferring with a man in a hardhat and a woman in a blazer the color of expensive olives. He spots me through the front windows, smiles like a politician, and raises two fingers in a salute. I meet his smile with the chill of a thousand maple creemees.
“Do you need me to run interference?” Dex asks, low.
“I can handle him,” I say, also low. “But if I lift my left eyebrow, release the kraken.”
“Noted,” he says, mouth doing that almost -smile again.
Mrs. Henderson materializes like an unskippable ad. “Dexter,” she says, delightfully ignoring my earlier correction. “Have you told Harper how handsome you look in plaid?”
Dex tips his chin, like he's absolutely guilty of that very thing. “Mrs. Henderson.”
“Don’t mind me,” she says, already minding both of us with Olympic intensity. “Just picking up my monthly dose of small--town gossip.” She leans conspiratorially across the counter. “I do hope you two have a plan to save this block from the bulldozers.”
“We do,” I say. “It’s called 'Throw the best Halloween Festival Hollow Creek has ever seen, raise enough money to make the council swoon, and then drown Vernon in a sea of positive press'.” I shrug, "It's a working title."
“Metaphorically,” Dex adds.
“Allegedly,” Mrs. Henderson purrs, and wafts away like a scented candle with secrets.
Dex shifts his weight, scans my face. “Are you sleeping enough?”
“Like a baby bird in a wind tunnel,” I say.
He pulls a folded paper from his back pocket. “Good. Because I brought a map.”
A map. Of Town Square. With little sticky notes for vendor placement and emergency access routes, and a legend where he wrote in all capsNO CORDS WHERE CHILDREN RUN. There’s something indecent about how attractive competent men are. I fan myself with a bookmark that saysReading Is My Cardio.
We lean over the counter—close enough that I can smell cedar and laundry detergent—and argue pleasantly about traffic flow.
“If we put the cider press here,” I say, tapping the northeast corner, “then it draws people past the bookstore first. They’ll arrive thirsty and emotionally open to fiction.”
“Or,” he counters, “we put the cider press here on the south side, and your kids’ story time tent here, so families make a loop instead of bottlenecking in front of Mel’s Diner.”
“Okay, civil engineer,” I say. “When did you get so good at crowd psychology?”
He shrugs, a shy little motion that should not be allowed on a body that size. “Years of helping with the Winter Jubilee. Also, I once saw two toddlers fight over a balloon sword and learned the true meaning of fear.”
“Valid,” I say. “Fine. South side cider. But I want the local author table right in the center.”
