Page 34 of The Pumpkin Pact
The shop smells like paper, lemon oil, and the ghost of chili from Mel’s. The strings of tiny pumpkins in the front window throws soft light over the floor. I set the jars behind the counterand the cash box on the stool. Harper leans on the edge for balance and looks at me like she is finally letting herself feel it.
“We saved it,” she says.
“You saved it,” I correct.
She shakes her head. “It was a team effort.” She taps the counter twice, then rubs her temples with her fingertips. “My feet are filing a formal complaint.”
I crouch, tap her ankle, and she laughs as she steps out of her boots. Striped socks appear thin at the heels. I straighten, and she sways toward me, tired and soft. My hands find her hips without thinking. Her hands climb my chest like steps she trusts.
“You always show up,” she says. “I was out of fight when I saw him with the council for the first time. Then you were there, and it came back.”
“I will keep showing up for as long as you'llhave me,” I say. The words surprise me with how easily they leave my mouth. They feel like a promise my body knows how to keep.
She tilts her face up. “Good. Because I want you here.”
There is a line between relief and hunger. We step over it at the same time.
I kiss her. It starts soft—she’s wrecked tired—but heat catches fast, and we both lean into the flame. She laughs against my mouth when a bookmark tin box skitters to the floor, then drags me through the curtain like she’s tired of pretending we don’t live here.
“Hang on,” I murmur, forehead to hers. “Do you?—?”
“Top drawer,” she says, already smiling. “I stock emergencies and pens.”
I find the foil package by the rubber bands, how appropriate. We both breathe easier. Consent and common sense—still sexy.
Something metal clatters as her elbow knocks a bookmark tin box off the counter and bookmarks go flying everywhere. We break for a breath and laugh, and then we are moving againlike magnets with admission. I back her toward the curtain that hides the storage room. The denim at my hips drags along the edge of the counter. The curtain brushes our shoulders, and we pass into the cooler dark area.
The backroom holds boxes, paper, dust, the old couch nobody sits on unless they need a minute, and a thin slice of streetlight from the tall window casting long shadows that dance across the floor. It's quiet back here. Far from the square, far from the council, far from every person who thought we were pretending. I press her against the wall and frame her face with my hands. She pulls my shirt like she wants it off yesterday.
“Tell me if you want slow,” I say, hands still at her jaw.
“I want you,” she says, steady as a vow. “And I want you here.”
So, I kiss her like an answer, and she answers back. The world narrows to paper-dust and citrus, to the way she makes a fist in my shirt like she’s mad at how much she wants me. When I finally drag my mouth to her throat, she tips her head like trust. The noise I make is not library-appropriate.
Harper. Her name is a whisper in my mind, a word I've said a thousand times but never like this. She’s too close, her breath brushing against my cheek. I feel her heartbeat through the thin fabric of her shirt, steady but quick, like a bird trapped in a cage. Or maybe that’s just my own heart, pounding in my chest.
This is the first time we've been together. The weight of it presses down on us both, thick and heavy, like the dust in the air. We've danced around this moment for days, our glances lingering a second too long, our laughter too close to something else. But now, here in the backroom of her bookstore, there’s no more room for pretenses. The air between us is electric, charged with unspoken words and unasked questions.
She looks up at me, and I feel the world tilt. Her gaze is a storm of emotions—hesitation, desire, something I can’t quitename. It’s like looking into a mirror, seeing my own uncertainty reflected back at me.“Dex,”she says, her voice low, a thread of vulnerability woven through it.“We shouldn’t. Not here.”
But she doesn’t step back. Neither do I. The words hang between us, a fragile barrier that neither of us seems willing to reinforce. Instead, I reach out, my thumb grazing the line of her jaw. Her skin is warm under my touch, soft, and she tilts her head into my hand, her eyelids fluttering closed. The moment stretches, fragile and electric, like the quiet before a storm.
“Or maybe we should,”she whispers, and I'm not sure if she’s asking or telling. Her voice is a breath, a promise, a question all at once. I lean in, my lips brushing hers, and the world narrows to this—her, me, the quiet chaos of this backroom. The kiss is tentative, a question more than an answer, but it’s enough to set something loose inside of me.
Her hands find the back of my neck, pulling me closer, and I realize this isn’t just about now. It’s about what comes next. The thought is both thrilling and terrifying, a tightrope walk over a chasm of possibilities. I deepen the kiss, my hand sliding down her arm to clasp her hand, her fingers intertwining with mine. Her touch is warm, familiar, and yet entirely new.
The room around us fades, the shelves of books, the dust, the faint hum of the bookstore all disappearing into the background. There’s only her, her scent, her taste, the way her body fits against mine like a puzzle piece I didn’t know was missing. Her breath hitches as I pull her closer, her chest pressing against mine, and I feel a hunger awaken in me, raw and urgent.
“Harper,”I murmur against her lips, her name a plea, a confession, a question. She responds with a soft sound, her fingers tightening on my neck, and I know she’s as lost as I am. This isn’t just about the heat between us, the way our bodies seem to hum in unison. It’s about the way she looks at me, likeshe sees something no one else does, like she understands the parts of me I've never put into words.
I step back, just enough to look at her, to really see her. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips swollen from our kiss, and her eyes—her eyes are a storm I want to drown in.“What are we doing?”I ask, the words rough, almost foreign in my mouth. It’s a question I've been asking myself for weeks, but now, standing here with her, it feels irrelevant.
She smiles, a small, uncertain curve of her lips, and shakes her head.“I don’t know,”she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.“But I think… I think I want to find out.”
Her words ignite something deep inside me. I don’t hesitate. I pull her close again, my hands sliding down her back, pressing her against me. The kiss this time is hungry, desperate, our lips moving in sync like we’ve done this a thousand times before. Her taste is addictive, and I crave more, my hands roaming over her body like I’m mapping uncharted territory.
She moans softly into my mouth, her hands tangling in my hair, and I feel a surge of desire so intense it’s almost painful. I want her—not just her body, but everything she is. The way she laughs, the way she talks about books like they’re old friends, the way she looks at me like I’m the only person in the room. It’s overwhelming, terrifying, and I don’t know how to handle it.
