Page 28 of The Pumpkin Pact
The festival kicks off like a cannon blast. By noon, Hollow Creek is humming—kids darting between booths with painted pumpkins, teenagers in face paint chasing each other with candy apples, and parents already regretting giving their toddlers cotton candy at ten a.m. The air is thick with cider steam, fried dough, and kettle corn, sweet enough to make my teeth ache. Music from the gazebo floats over the square, strung in so many orange lights it looks like it swallowed the sun. Even the lampposts wear ribbons and bows, and the entire town feels like it stepped into its own postcard.
The town has swelled with so many tourists it feels like Main Street doubled in size overnight, every booth packed and every sidewalk buzzing. Already the cash boxes are filling, the donation jars are clinking, and the whole thing has an electric hum of success you can feel right down to your boots.
I’m supposed to be focused on logistics. Power cords taped down, food trucks lined up, spider boxes humming, fire extinguishers stationed like little red soldiers at the ready. And I am, sort of. Except every time Harper brushes past me with that clipboard tucked under her arm and her cardigan slipping off one shoulder, I forget what the hell a spider box even is.
She’s laughing with Mrs. Henderson, checking on the raffle table Dolly insisted on, and the crowd seems to tilt toward her like she’s the center of gravity for the entire festival. I tell myself it’s just optics, just what Mom said, but the real truth is simpler and harder to hide: I can’t stop reaching for her, no matter how much I pretend it’s part of the show.
My hand drifts to the small of her back when she threads through the crowd, steadying her like it’s second nature. Our fingers brush when we trade flyers, a spark jumping up my arm every time. When we lean over the schedule together, my shoulder bumps hers, and I don’t bother moving away. Each brief contact feels like a live wire, and the whole town watches as if they’ve paid admission to see us put on the main act.
“Cute!” someone yells as we pass.
“Finally!” someone else adds.
I grit my teeth and keep walking, Harper’s hand warm in mine. She’s smiling, playing along, but when our eyes meet, something flickers there—too quick to name but strong enough to punch the air from my lungs. For a split second I’m convinced she feels this too, and the thought rattles me more than any crowd noise.
“Relax,” she whispers as we approach the cider press. “You look like you’re about to fight a zombie.”
“It feels like a war zone,” I mutter back. “Only with a lot more sugar.”
She grins, and the sight nearly drops me where I stand.
Cole shows up around two o’clock, a bag of kettle corn under one arm and Mr. Darcy perched like royalty in a baby stroller complete with a plaid blanket. The cat waves his tail like aparade marshal, clearly betraying me again, and Cole is strutting beside him as if they’ve just won Best in Show.
“Rowen!” he hollers over the crowd, ignoring the stares. “Looking cozy! Should I start taking bets on when you’ll propose, or is that already in Mrs. Henderson’s notebook?”The nearby crowd pauses mid–cider sip to gawk at us, whispers buzzing like bees in a hive.
I drag a hand over my face. “Don’t start, Morales.”
“Oh, I’m starting.” He plants himself and the baby stroller in front of us, smug as sin. “This whole town is frothing at the mouth for you two. Honestly, I’m just impressed you lasted this long pretending you weren’t into her.”
Harper nearly chokes on her cider. “Cole!”
“What?” He shrugs, completely unbothered by the dagger looks Harper and I are throwing him. “I’m only saying what everyone’s thinking—and judging by the way half the town is whispering, that’s a lot of thinking.”
I want to argue. Deny. Something. But the words stick. My brain’s too busy replaying last night’s kiss, the way her lips parted in surprise, how she didn’t pull away. Fake or not, it’s burned into me like a brand.
“Shouldn’t you be charming the quilting guild or something?” I mutter.
“Already did.” He tosses Mr. Darcy a piece of BBQ, and the cat eats it like he’s been waiting his whole life for Cole Morales. “You’re welcome.”
“Traitors,” I grumble.
Across the square, Vernon is cornering Councilman Riggs near the cider press. I catch just enough to hear: “If I don’t hit my financing milestone this quarter, the whole development stalls. I need that block green-lit now.” His smile is all teeth. This isn’t just money—it’s his lifeline.
The afternoon rolls on in a blur of cider foam and raffle tickets. I’m everywhere at once—fixing a tripped breaker, hauling pumpkins and bales of hay, catching two kids trying to joust each other with balloon swords near the carving table. All the while, Harper is at my side, calling out times, charming vendors, smiling at the council members who keep drifting by.
And it kills me. Because the closer she leans, the clearer it is that I want this to be real. Not just the hand-holding, the optics, the “fake” smiles for the town’s benefit. I want the way her voice softens when she says my name. The way she pushes her hair back with ink-stained fingers. The way she looks at me like I’m more than the guy who came home broken.
That old scar throbs—the one no one can see. The fiancée who bailed when the Army got too real. The knee that still aches when storms roll in. The paperwork stamped “medical discharge” like a brand I never asked for. I tell myself I’m fine, that planning festivals and fixing squeaky doors in a small town is enough. But standing here with Harper’s hand in mine, it feels like maybe I’ve been lying to myself all along.
At dusk, the square is lit like fireflies in formation. Music thrums from the gazebo, kids run sticky and wild, and the smell of fried dough makes the whole street shimmer with warmth. Harper is glowing beside me, cheeks pink from the chill, eyes bright with triumph.
“This is working,” she whispers, awed.
I squeeze her hand, pride swelling in my chest. “Of course it is. You made it happen, Harper. I’ve never seen anyone pull a whole town together the way you just did.”
Her smile knocks the air right out of me, and for a heartbeat the noise of the square fades. I want to lean in and kiss her—not for show, not for the crowd, but because everything in me aches to. No audience. No optics. Just the raw truth of wanting her. My body leans an inch closer before I snap myself back, pulse racing, forcing the space open again. If I don’t, I’ll do something I can’t take back.
Before I do something reckless, the speakers shriek with feedback so sharp the entire square flinches. Then—silence. The bluegrass band is mid-song and suddenly dead air. Gasps ripple, kids cry, vendors mutter. Vernon’s shadow vanishes behind the gazebo just as I shove through the crowd.
