Page 26 of The Pumpkin Pact
“Relax,” I mutter to myself. “The festival will be fine. The council will wait. Vernon will trip over a decorative gourd and break his ego in half.” I snicker under my breath. “One can only hope.”
Mr. Darcy, perched on the dictionary throne, yawns wide enough to show all his teeth. His expression saysunlikely.
The bell jingles and in strides Dex, all flannel and calm, like the human embodiment of a lumberjack calendar come to life. God, he's hot. He sets a paper bag and a coffee on the counter with the easy confidence that makes my pulse stumble. “You need to eat,” he says, steady and matter-of-fact. “So I brought you breakfast—no excuses.”
“You’re a saint.” Gratitude softens my voice as I wrap both hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into me. For a moment I just breathe in the steam, ridiculously thankful he always seems to know when I need saving from myself. I grab the coffee first, because a girl has her priorities, then peek at the bag with a smile. “What’s in the bag?”
Dex smirks, a little cocky and a little too pleased with himself, and it sends a ridiculous flutter through my chest. God help me, I actually like that look on him. “A cinnamon roll the size of your face.”
“Perfect. I need sugar. Lots of it. Preferably delivered via cinnamon roll, hot coffee, and maybe even an IV drip.”
He quirks an eyebrow. "Why?”
“For dealing with Vernon. He feeds on despair, so I have to keep my blood sugar and caffeine levels stable—otherwise he’ll smell weakness and I’ll end up sacrificed to the pumpkin gods before the festival even starts.”
Dex chuckles, leaning one hip against the counter, and the sound does something alarming to my insides. His eyes roam my face a second too long, and suddenly I need to look anywhere else. I choose the pastry bag as if it’s fascinating literature.
“Festival check-in?” he asks.
“Vendors confirmed, signage up, Dolly still scheming about setting up a raffle table.”
His brows shoot up. “A raffle table?”
“Apparently she thinks it’ll raise twice as much money if she makes it 'flirty'. Her words, not mine," I roll my eyes. "I told her absolutely not, but she’s convinced the town will line up for it.” Dolly never takes no for an answer—she treats resistance like seasoning and just sprinkles on more determination.
He groans. “This town’s going to be the death of me.”
Before I can answer, the door bursts open and Cole barrels in, sunshine and leather jacket. Mr. Darcy leaps down, abandons me without hesitation, and twines around his legs like they’ve been best friends forever.
“Morning, lovebirds!” Cole crows.
“We’re not—” I start.
Dex talks over me. “Don’t start.”
Cole just smirks, scooping up Mr. Darcy like the cat’s his long-lost son. “Too late. The town is buzzing. Everyone’s betting on whether you two kiss again before the festival opening ceremony.”
I nearly choke on a cinnamon roll. “They’rebetting?”
Cole nods. “Mrs. Henderson’s running a pool. Fifty bucks says you cave by sundown.” He waggles his brows like he’s already spent the winnings, clearly enjoying every ounce of Dex’s irritation and my horror.
Dex presses two fingers to his temple like he’s getting a migraine. “Unbelievable.”
“Oh, very believable. This is Hollow Creek after all,” Cole says with a laugh, winking at me like he’s in on some private joke. “Just give the people what they want, dude.”
“Out,” Dex orders, pointing at the door, his tone flat but his jaw tight with annoyance, as if he’s barely holding back a laugh and a growl at the same time.
“Fine, fine,” Cole says with a dramatic sigh, but not before ruffling Dex’s head like an annoying kid brother. He deposits a purring Mr. Darcy back on the counter, winks, and strolls out as if he owns the place. The cat immediately turns his back on Dex, tail flicking with disdain, as though siding with Cole in their little power struggle.
“This town definitely hates me,” Dex mutters, shooting me a wide-eyed look of exaggerated misery before glaring at the cat. “See? Even the cat hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” I say, softening, though a laugh bubbles under my words because the entire scene is absurd. “He’s just… complicated.” I can’t help the fondness in my tone, and I hope Dex doesn’t notice how much I’m secretly charmed by his grumbling.
Dex huffs, trying for irritation, but there’s a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth that makes my chest tighten with an entirely inconvenient rush of warmth.
By afternoon, the square is buzzing with volunteers. I’m pinning schedules to lampposts when Eleanor, Dex's mom, sidles up, clipboard in hand, eyes gleaming with a general’s mischief.
“You two need to hold hands more,” she declares.
