Page 3 of The Pumpkin Pact
“Done.” He writes it in block letters. 'Author ego hub'.
“I will throw this pen at your beard,” I say. “And it will never come out.”
He grins, full wattage, and I forget every vowel in the alphabet.
The bell rings, and Vernon enters with a gust of expensive cologne and ambition. He does an appreciative spin, as if he’s taking in the charming patina of a building he would love to turn into artisanal co-working spaces or luxury condos.
“Harper,” he says, smile refined to a surgical instrument. “Dexter.”
“It’s Dex,” we say in stereo.
Vernon’s gaze lands on the map between us. “Planning quite the event, I see.”
“We are,” I say. “Hollow Creek will be humming.”
“I’m delighted,” he says mildly, which is Vernon for ‘I prefer it hums three streets over.’ “I’d hate for your… efforts to be in vain if the council moves forward with my revitalization project.”
Mr. Darcy lifts his head like a judge about to deliver a verdict of death by cat scratches.
“This isn’t a charity bake sale, Vernon,” I say, smile sugar -sweet. “It’s a fundraiser, a community showcase, and a public demonstration that these businesses are valuable and viable. Not to mention vital to the community.”
“Ah,” he says, like he’s discovered a hair in his soup. “Well. Let me know if you want to talk about a buyout. I have a very fair offer on the table, but it won't be there for long.”
“My answer is still no,” I say. “But if the offer comes with a time machine to 1904, when this building was erected, we can discuss preserving the tin ceiling.”
Vernon’s eyes tick upward, as if the ceiling is taunting him. “Think about it,” he says smoothly. “It would be a shame for sentiment to stand in the way of progress.”
“Sometimes progress is remembering what’s worth keeping,” Dex says, voice even but edged.
Vernon nods as if Dex has said something adorable, like a child announcing a lemonade stand. “Have a lovely day.” He touches two fingers to his temple, a salute born in a boardroom, and glides out.
The door chimes, and the room exhales. Mr. Darcy jumps down, lands with a thump, and stalks to the window to watchVernon walk away. His tail flicks like a metronome set tosimmering disdain.
“I hate that man,” I say softly.
“I know,” Dex says. “I’ve never wanted to trip someone more in my life.”
“Don’t,” I say. “We need him walking upright when the newspapers photograph him losing his bid to destroy our town.”
Dex’s mouth twitches. “You’re terrifying.”
“I’m five--two,” I say. “I had to develop other skills in life.”
The morning rush comes and goes. The book club ladies try to pay for their paperbacks with homemade pickles again. I decline politely and put the jar under the counter for lunch. Dex fixes the squeak in the front door with a screwdriver he evidently carries for such occasions. Mr. Darcy plants himself on the map like a furry boulder and swats our pens when we plan something he doesn’t approve.
Around noon, Dex glances at the clock. “I’m headed to Town Hall for the permit sign--off. Want anything from Mel’s on my way back?”
“Coffee,” I say immediately. “And a tuna melt I can pretend is healthy because there’s celery in it.”
He nods once, classic Dex. He will walk into a hurricane to get you a sandwich if you ask.
“Dex?” I say as he reaches the door. He looks back, hand on the frame, like a romance novel cover that accidentally got feelings. “Thanks… for this. For all of it.”
Something warm and startled moves across his face. “We’re going to win, Harper.”
I swallow. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do,” he says, simply and certain. “Because you’ll make it happen.”
