Page 20 of The Pumpkin Pact
We stand under her porch light; the world rinsed quiet. She reaches to straighten my collar; my hand finds her wrist and just… stays.
“We shouldn’t,” she whispers, already leaning.
“Probably not,” I agree, already kissing her anyway. It’s brief, not polite, and leaves us both breathless enough to fumble the goodbye. A neighbor’s porch lamp snaps on; we peel apart, laughing, wrecked. “Tomorrow,” I say.
“Bring coffee,” she orders—and closes the door with a smile that will keep me awake all night.
I stand on the porch one extra beat and listen to the door lock behind her. Then I take the steps slowly and walk home under a sky that looks like somebody sanded down the stars and left them brighter for it.
Chapter 5
Harper
By noon, Hollow Creek has the collective attention span of a squirrel in a pumpkin patch. Word travels faster than wind, quicker than Mrs. Henderson on a rumor with proper nouns. “Town council tonight,” the chorus goes, hands cupped around mouths like we’re transmitting secrets across a canyon. And then there’s Vernon—shimmering down Main like a peacock that discovered hair product.
He does the lap: florist, diner, hardware store, my shop. At each stop, he shakes hands too long, laughs too loud, and does that shoulder squeeze men in expensive suits think counts as empathy. He’s wearing cologne that smells like teakwood and paperwork. Mr. Darcy watches him from the register with murder in his eyes and a tail flick that translates—roughly—to touch the shelving and die.
“Over my cold croissants,” I mutter, straightening a stack of staff picks.
As if on cue, Vernon glides in like he owns the building already. “Harper,” he purrs, making my name sound like a down payment on a big house. “Big night.”
“Night like any other,” I say, voice sunny and sharp. “Except for the democracy.”
“Democracy loves progress,” he says, smiling as though he invented sidewalks. Through the window, he clocks Councilman Riggs crossing toward Mel’s and lifts his chin in a tiny, proprietary nod. “And progress loves a decisive vote.”
“I’m pro-decisions,” I say. “Just not the kind that involve bulldozers.”
He places a slick business card on the counter with two fingers. “Time’s running out, Ms. Venn. If you’d like to discuss a graceful exit, my door is always open.”
Mr. Darcy plants his paw squarely on the card, unsheathes one claw, and drags it with theatrical slowness straight through Vernon's embossed name. The sound is a tiny, perfect violin of menace, and I love it.
“Your employee has opinions of me,” Vernon says, the corner of his mouth going brittle.
“He’s management,” I say. “We value transparency.”
Vernon’s smile thins. “I’ll see you tonight.” He pivots out, and the bell gives a sharp jangle behind him, like even it’s annoyed by his exit.
I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the door after he’s gone and count to five like therapists teach for ‘moments when villains practice active smugness.’ Behind me, Mr. Darcy chirps like a smoke alarm.
“You and me both, buddy,” I say. “We’re going to make it, though. I promise. I have fourteen color-coded spreadsheets and a grudge.”
By late afternoon, Mel’s Diner has switched from breakfast to war room. The booths along the windows are occupied by the book club ladies, all armed with clipboards, pens, anda terrifying awareness of precedent. The mayor eats soup at the counter with a napkin tucked into his collar like a bib, pretending he can’t hear strategy being breathed like incense.
Eleanor Rowen—Dex’s mother, my guardian angel with pies—is stationed at the end booth like a general at a map. She waves me over, eyes bright, as Dex slides in beside me with the world’s most necessary coffee. My knee bumps his under the table, and my nerve endings take that personally.
“Sit,” Eleanor says, which sounds shockingly like attention.
“Hi to you, too,” I say.
She laces her fingers, regards us like she’s balancing a budget and a bake sale. “Listen carefully, children,” she says, in the voice that raised a son and organized a dozen town events with nothing but Post-its and fearlessness. “The council is skittish. Half of them are picturing tax revenue in their sleep; the other half are picturing a PR nightmare if they bulldoze Mrs. Henderson’s chrysanthemums. Tonight is all about optics and narratives. So, you both need to give them a story.”
I blink. “A story like… charts and projections? I've got that already.”
“A story like love,” she says, deadpan.
My mouth opens. Somewhere between indignation and panic, a laugh sneaks out and trips over itself. “I’m sorry, what?”
Eleanor taps the table, a cinnamon-polished fingernail making tiny, definitive ticks. “Everyone loves a love story, Harper. This town especially. If the council sees the two of you as the heart of this block—devoted, steady, part of the fabric—they’ll be gentler on the fabric. Walk in together. Hold hands. Smile like you have nothing to hide and everything to fight for.”
