Page 32 of The Pumpkin Pact
Applause spills across the square. Someone whistles. The band strikes up. I step off the stage on wobbly legs and into Dex’s shoulder like a ship docking at a favored port. He steadies me with that calm he wears like a jacket.
“You killed it,” he says.
“I didn’t trip,” I say. “That felt like a win.”
He strokes his knuckles down my arm, not casual, not quite gentlemanly, something hungrier that he is trying to keep tidy. It doesn’t stay tidy. I lean in. His mouth finds my temple. The world blurs again.
We drift toward the fiction booth to relieve Beatrice. She relinquishes the cash box with a sigh and a whisper about running out of zip ties, then vanishes with a suspicious glint. I ring up a stack of horror novels for a teenager who announces that poetry cured his fear of the dark. Dex restocks the bookmarks, and we pretend not to see the flash of Mrs. Henderson’s phone.
“Do we think the council noticed the jars?” I ask as I bag a memoir.
“They noticed,” he says. “Todd tried to lift one and lost a bicep.”
“Good,” I say. “He can use the other one to vote correctly.”
The night tips toward late. The bluegrass band wraps. The light-show guy, who is a cousin of a cousin, rolls his rig toward the square. Families settle on quilts spread over the grass. The air cools. Mr. Darcy returns to the booth from wherever he has been reigning and hops onto the counter, placing one paw on the card reader like a tiny tax collector. He head butts my wrist. He sniffs Dex’s knuckles, but he doesn’t slap him. Progress.
“Your Grace,” Dex says politely.
Mr. Darcy blinks, and I consider it a benediction.
“Ready,” the light show guy calls. He gives the mayor a thumbs-up. The mayor gavels because he cannot resist drama, then nods grandly at the sky.
The first firework blooms, white and slow, a chrysanthemum that hangs then falls. The second cracks red. The third spits gold and green that spin like coins. People ooh and ahh in honest chorus. The sound tugs at the softest part of me.
Dex stands behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, hands flat over my ribs like a shield. His chin rests on my head. I fit here. I didn’t know I had a place like this. He breathes me in. I lean back into him until all the separate pieces of me stop clattering and settle into one shape. The sky keeps blooming.
“Harper,” he says, low.
“Hmm,” I say, useless.
“Look at what you built,” he says. “Listen.”
I do. I hear laughter, coins, the low thrum of the generator that feeds the lights, the squeal of a stroller wheel that needs oil, the soft purr of one very pleased tuxedo tyrant. I hear my own heart slow down.
Vernon stands across the square, smaller under the fireworks than he looks in sunlight. He watches the crowd, and he checks his watch. He doesn’t smile.
I feel a clean, fierce thing rise in me. It tastes like success.
I turn my face toward Dex without breaking the hold of his arms. He meets me halfway. The kiss is unhurried and certain, a seal of something we both already decided. There are gasps. There is probably a camera or two, but I don’t care. He keeps me close through the final volley while gold rains down and smoke rubs the air with its soft hand, and I say the quiet part out loud in my head, clear as a bell.
I am in love with this man.
There it is. No spreadsheets. No optics. No excuses. Love, simple as a breath and bright as a match.
The last firework hangs like a coin tossed in a fountain, then falls. The crowd claps, then cheers, then moves in warm, happy floods on their way home or wherever they came from. Dex presses his mouth to my hair and laughs softly for no reason I can name except he feels the same.
Tomorrow we will count money, haul trash, chase permits, and argue with the world’s most persistent developer. Tonight, I stand in the town square of my hometown I adore with a man who feels like home, and for the first time since the email with the subject line Time Sensitive Offer, I believe in a future that belongs to us.
Chapter 10
Dex
The festival winds down like the last chorus at a barn dance, soft echoes fading under a gentle glow. Lanterns sway above the square as a cool breeze slides in, a reminder that winter is close. Strands of orange lights blink like tired fireflies. Volunteers gather in small groups with brooms and trash bags, laughing the easy laughter that comes when the hard part is over and the night still feels good. The air is thick with wood-smoke and sugar, the kind that clings to your clothes and lingers for months.
Harper leans against the gazebo rail with both palms flat, head tipped back, hair falling loose down her back. The lantern light catches the strands and turns them gold, and for a second I forget about the square and everyone in it. Her cardigan is smudged with God knows what, her cheeks are flushed from hours of work, but none of it matters. Her smile looks stunned in the best possible way, and to me she’s the most beautiful thing here—like the town made a wish and she appeared to answer it.
I step close until my arm brushes hers. Her shoulder settles against my chest like it belongs there, like she was made to lean into me. In the glow of lantern light, she looks breathtaking, and the simple contact steadies me better than any coffee ever could.
