Page 24 of The Pumpkin Pact
Me: Home. Cat fed. Democracy mildly appeased.
Dex: Good. Get some sleep. You did great tonight.
I climb into bed with my laptop, open the spreadsheet named DONOR OUTREACH v. 6 FINAL FINAL ACTUAL FINAL, and stare at the blinking cursor until it looks like a heartbeat. The town council did not cave to Vernon—not yet. We have a few days to make the town fall in love with itself in public.
And if on the way there, we fake a love story so hard it becomes something else… well. Everyone loves a love story.
Chapter 6
Dex
Hollow Creek wakes up buzzing like a hive after last night’s council meeting. By the time I grab a coffee at Mel’s, three separate people slap me on the back and say congratulations, though no one specifies if they mean Harper’s speech, the delayed vote, or the kiss. Probably the kiss. Word spreads here faster than maple syrup on a hot griddle.
Mom slides a to-go lid across the counter without looking up. “Straighten your collar, soldier.”
I reach up; she swats my hand away with two fingers and flicks her eyes toward the door. Harper’s already halfway across the diner, cardigan, clipboard, comet tail of purpose.
“Hold still,” Harper says when she reaches me. She smooths the rumpled collar, knuckles grazing my throat; electricity does a quiet, treacherous circuit. Her brows tip as if she’s surprised too.
From the pie case, Mom’s reflection folds her arms, approving. Optics, yes—but something warmer hums underneath.
“Better,” Harper murmurs, eyes flicking to my mouth and away so fast I could pretend I imagined it. I don’t.
I can’t shake it. The way she looked standing at that podium, fierce and bright, voice steady even when her knees wobbled.The way she glanced at me like she needed an anchor, and somehow I got the privilege to be it.
And then afterward, when I kissed her—twice—like it was the most natural thing in the world, the ground might as well have tilted under me. I’ve been through firefights, late-night patrols, and med board evaluations that decided my future, but none of it has ever scrambled my head, my pulse, or my sense of direction the way Harper Venn does with one look and a kiss.
So I do what I always do when my brain’s a mess: I work. Festival prep is in full swing. I spend the morning chalking vendor numbers on the square, checking electrical hookups with Gary from the co-op, and hauling hay bales until my arms burn. Anything to keep busy. Anything to keep from replaying the way her lips felt under mine.
Of course, keeping busy doesn’t keep Harper away. She’s everywhere—coordinating volunteers with the authority of a general, pinning flyers with surgical precision, rearranging pumpkins like they’re troops in formation, and somehow making even the chaos look good. Every laugh she throws across the square cuts through the noise and hooks me in before I can look away.
Every time I look up, she’s across the square with her clipboard, laughing with Dolly, scolding Beatrice about zip ties, or smoothing her hair back from her face with that unconscious flick of her wrist that undoes me. And every time she catches me watching, my chest does this stupid kick, like my heart forgot which direction to march.
By noon, the square looks half-finished but promising. Vendors set up their booths, the book club ladies are still debating ribbon colors, and Vernon lurks on the sidelines pretending to check his watch while really checking who’s talking to whom. He catches my eye once, his smile smug enough to curdle milk. Something’s brewing, and I don’t like it.
I spot him angling his phone over the cord runs, snapping photos like a claims adjuster. He crouches by a spider box, zooms in on the label, then pans to the sidewalk seam where a cable will cross. “Right-of-way, temporary power, decibel caps,” he mutters into the mic, like he’s feeding a list to someone who bites.
Gary calls me over to check the power cables. He’s grumbling about amperage while I’m half-distracted watching Harper string orange ribbon with Dolly. “She’s got you running in circles, huh?” Gary mutters, not even looking at me.
I grunt. “Festivals take work.”
Gary snorts. “Didn’t say the festival. You know this whole town’s betting on you two.”
Great. No pressure or anything.
I head to The Wandering Page to deliver extra signage. Harper’s now at the counter, pen flying over a notebook, Mr. Darcy sprawled across a stack of books like a furry blockade to his person. He lifts his head when I come in, glares, and thumps his tail once. Approval denied.
“Busy?” I ask.
“Only if you count seventeen calls, three deliveries, and Mrs. Henderson trying to add a kissing booth to the festival—with you as the main attraction,” she says without looking up.
I choke. “A what?”
She glances up, eyes sparkling. “She claims it’s for charity.”
“Not happening.”
“Relax, soldier,” Harper says, smirking. “I already vetoed it.”
