Page 25 of The Pumpkin Pact
We fall into an easy rhythm, sorting flyers and checking lists. Our hands brush once, twice, and each time it feels lessaccidental and more like inevitability. When I lean across her to stack flyers, my arm brushes hers; she doesn’t move, so neither do I. Heat lingers. Her perfume—citrus and paper—threads under my skin, and I have to step back before I forget the difference between fake optics and the thing I actually want. My chest tightens. If this is fake, it’s the most real fake I’ve ever lived through.
Cole strolls in around two, still wearing that leather jacket like it’s part of his bloodstream. “Rowen! Harper! The square looks good enough to land a helicopter on.”
“Please don’t,” Harper says. “We’re already over budget.”
Cole grins. “Relax, just an observation. But I did see that slick developer—Vince, Vance, whatever his name is—sweet-talking Councilman Riggs outside Mel’s. Looked cozy. He had a folder tabbed COMPLIANCE.” Cole’s mouth twisted. “Gold letters. Guy’s brand is smug.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And he’s weaponizing the rulebook.”
Harper stiffens. I want to reach for her hand right there in front of everyone, but instead I clench my jaw. “His name is Vernon, and it figures.”
Cole slaps my shoulder. “We’ll keep an eye on him. You just keep the love story believable.”
“Excuse me?” Harper squeaks.
Cole winks. “The whole town’s invested now. Don’t let your fans down.”
She groans and drops her forehead to the counter. Mr. Darcy immediately abandons her, purring and weaving around Cole’s legs like he’s found a new favorite human. Traitor.
Cole lingers, telling war stories and razzing me about my beard until Harper laughs so hard she nearly spills her coffee. I glare, but the sound warms me, anyway. Cole eventually drifts out, promising to check back later. Harper watches him go, shaking her head. “I like him.”
I grunt. “Of course you do.”
The rest of the day blurs in hay, hammering, and way too many pumpkin deliveries. Dolly recruits me to help hoist an archway, Beatrice nearly singes my eyebrows lighting test lanterns, and Mrs. Henderson corners me with questions about my “intentions” toward Harper until I fake a phone call to escape. Through it all, Harper’s laugh keeps drifting across the square, and each time it drags me back to last night.
At one point, I end up shoulder to shoulder with her in the gazebo, watching her square off with the marching band director about set lists. She taps her clipboard like it’s a gavel and says firmly, “Two jazz standards and one spooky number,” refusing to budge.
“Spooky? Jazz isn’t spooky,” he argues, eyebrows shooting up as if the very concept offends him.
“Monster Mash counts,” she shoots back, scribbling it onto the program with dramatic finality. She tosses the band director a look that dares him to argue again, then straightens. I lean in close, shoulder brushing hers, drawn in by the spark of triumph still flashing in her eyes.
“You terrify people into compliance,” I murmur, half in awe, half in warning, because watching her command a room does dangerous things to me. She laughs low. I set my palm at the small of her back to guide her past a dangling cord and leave it there half a breath too long.
She turns into my palm, that soft, accidental-on-purpose press that short-circuits my common sense. “Careful,” she says, not moving away.
“Trying,” I lie.
Her grin nearly knocks the air out of me. Heat coils low in my chest, and for a heartbeat I can’t think about crowd flow or vendor permits—I can only think about her lips and how close they are. I swallow hard, force myself back a step, retreating before I do something like kiss her in broad daylight with half the town watching.
By dusk, when the lanterns glow along Main Street, Harper comes off a phone call and leans into my side to show me a text; we both forget to lean back. The crowd swallows us, and for three seconds it feels like we’re alone in the noise. I’m bone-tired yet buzzing with leftover adrenaline.
Vernon slinks past the gazebo, his phone to his ear. “—then citetemporary use permits, cord covers across municipal ROW, and amplified sound after 8 p.m. Get me enforcement on site,” he says, voice low-knife. He meets my eyes. “Hope you’re ready, Rowen,” he says smoothly. “Wouldn’t want the festival to collapse under its own weight.”
“Try me,” I answer low, voice edged with challenge.
He tucks his phone away, still smiling. “Oh, I intend to.”
I watch him disappear into the twilight, shoulders tight. Around me, the square glows warm and alive—Harper’s laugh echoing, Cole’s voice carrying, lanterns bobbing like stars come down to earth. And just like that, I know we’re in for a fight. Not just to pull off this festival, but to keep everything that matters standing.
Chapter 7
Harper
By morning, Hollow Creek looks like a festival exploded overnight. Hay bales line the gazebo, streamers crisscross Main Street, and pumpkins have multiplied like rabbits. Shop windows glow with painted ghosts and grinning scarecrows, the air smells like cider and caramel, and even the lampposts are wearing little orange bows. It’s as if the town decided subtlety was optional and went straight to a Hallmark movie that overdosed on pumpkin spice.
I should be thrilled. Iamthrilled. But mostly I’m pacing behind the counter at The Wandering Page, wearing a groove in the old hardwood, replaying Vernon’s smug smile in my head like it’s a cursed GIF. Every time I blink, I see that polished smirk, like he already has the council wrapped around his perfectly pressed suit sleeve. The more I think about it, the more my chest tightens until even Mr. Darcy flicks an ear like he’s telling me to stop before I chew through the countertop.
And as if on cue, the bell of gossip tolls—Mrs. Henderson texts me, yes, she texts, that a bloc of council members is planning to attend tomorrow ‘specifically to evaluate safety and compliance.’ The words hum in my head like a neon sign:evaluate safety. Vernon’s fingerprints are all over it.
