Page 30 of The Pumpkin Pact
“Stopping,” he says, not stopping.
Cole appears with Mr. Darcy riding in his cat-stroller-thing like he has diplomatic immunity. The cat wears a tiny ribbon on his collar and looks pleased with his station. Cole tips two fingers at me and grins at Dex like he holds a secret he intends to sell at auction.
“How’s the romance economy?” he asks. “Bullish?”
“Go charm the pie table,” I say.
“Already did,” he says, smug. “They adopted me. Mrs. Henderson says my cheekbones can move product.”
Mr. Darcy butts Cole’s hand. The purr rattles. My cat, a known misanthrope, has given his little tuxedo heart to a stranger while keeping a running list of Dex’s sins. I don’t know what karmic bargain triggered this, but I would like to renegotiate the agreement.
“Hi, Your Grace,” Dex says to the cat with the patience of a saint as he bows toward him. Mr. Darcy blinks, then turns his back with the grandeur of a French opera star walking off stage. Cole laughs until he wheezes.
“Stay safe,” Cole says, still grinning. “I hear the kissing booth is pop up only.”
“There is no kissing booth,” I tell him, then to Dex, “there will never be a kissing booth.”
“Copy,” Dex says, eyes warm. “Shame.”
“Focus,” I say, louder than I mean, and pretend to study the schedule.
The bluegrass band sets up as paper bats sway from the gazebo rafters. My shoulders drop a fraction. Then I see Vernon.
He stands near the council members in a navy suit that screams executive brunch. He laughs with his mouth, not his eyes. He shakes hands as if he’s running for political office. One councilman, Todd with the boat, leans in far too much. Another, Joan with the tidy garden, keeps her face polite and unreadable. I would like to hire Joan to coach me in inscrutability.
My stomach tightens. I try to remind my body that we have receipts, literally, that the jars are heavy and the card reader is tired. I still feel the wobble. If this goes sideways, my bookstore becomes a memory. The thought puts ice in my blood.
Dex notices. He always notices. His hand returns to my spine. “Breathe,” he says, low, like a grounding cord.
“Working on it,” I say.
We stall beside the gazebo while the band tunes. The air carries wood-smoke and sugar and a hint of November on the horizon. The string lights blur a little. Either my eyes are wet or I am standing too close to the apple fritter fryer. Possibly both.
“Harper,” a voice says behind me, smooth as shellac.
I turn—and Vernon is already at the gazebo steps, two council members in tow. The band’s sound tech has left the mic hot from tuning; Vernon leans into it like it’s a friend.
“Lovely event,” he says, voice carrying. “Truly impressive. But tell me—and the council—isn’t this just a PR stunt? A carefully staged… romance?”
The knot of council members turns. Conversations hiccup around us; a dozen phones tilt our way. Heat crawls up my neck.
“Authenticity matters,” Vernon adds, palms up, benevolent as a warning label. “If this is theater, the council deserves to know.”
Dex’s hand finds mine—steady, not stagey. I take the microphone. “Great question. Here are some facts.” I start. “As of 6:20 p.m.$18,406in donations to the library annex,$6,120via QR, the rest cash, and checks. Vendors report sell-through up 30–70% over last fall. We’ve logged zero safety incidents, passed fire and temporary-power checks, and added 68 new monthly donors at the info booth.”
I gesture to the jars, the QR signs, the square that’s humming because people choose to be here. “That’s not theater. That’s community.”
Councilwoman Trammel’s pen pauses mid-note. “Those are useful numbers,” she says, cool but audible. Councilman Wu nods, already calculating.
A tuxedo blur streaks past my ankles. Mr. Darcy has escaped his stroller like a furry jailbreak artist. He pads directly across Vernon’s polished shoe, plants one dainty paw on the man’s iPadsitting on the gazebo ledge, and—without breaking eye contact—nudges it off the rail. It thunks to the grass.
Laughter pops like corn. Someone near the council says, “Even the cat’s voting.”
Mr. Darcy sits, tail curled, with an expression ofnext witness.
I look at Vernon, then at the council, then at the square that smells like sugar and smoke and home. “We started this with optics,” I say, not hiding. “Because we wanted time to show you this. To show you what we can do together.” I find Dex’s eyes. “But I’m done pretending the rest of it is strategy. I choose Dexter Rowen—not as optics, as truth—and I choose this town the same way.”
A low, spontaneous cheer rolls across the first two rows; Trammel’s mouth almost curves. Vernon’s smile thins like a paper cut.
