Page 4 of The Pumpkin Pact
He leaves before my heart can do something embarrassing like compose a sonnet in his honor.
The afternoon drifts by in a flurry of receipts and tiny victories. A tourist buys a stack of Vermont authors' books, a teenager shyly asks for recommendations on graphic novels and leaves with three books and the light of literacy in his eyes, and Mrs. Henderson returns to whisper that she saw Vernon frown at a pothole, which she took as a sign from God.
At three, the school day releases a stream of kids onto Main Street like a flock of geese in hoodies. Two of them beeline for the manga. One tells me he wrote a horror story set in a maple sugarhouse and would I read it? I promised I will, and I mean it.
By four--thirty, I am deep in the back stacks hunting for a mis--shelved copy ofThe Haunted History of Vermontwhen the ladder I'm standing on does a tiny, traitorous shimmy.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper, white -knuckling the rung with one hand and reaching for the book with the other. “We talked about this. We are stable. We are?—”
The ladder slides an inch. My stomach becomes a haunted elevator.
“Hey,” Dex’s voice comes from below, steady as bedrock. “Don’t move.”
“I’m not,” I say brightly, which is a lie. I move my mouth a lot when I panic.
His hands clamp the ladder, and the world rights itself. I can breathe again.
“Why is it always you and ladders?” he mutters.
“Because I have life goals,” I say, carefully stepping down into his breath and the cedar smell and the warmth of being very much alive. “Also because I refuse to accept that the top shelf is mocking me.”
He steadies me with one big hand at my elbow, then doesn’t let go right away, like he’s checking for tremors.His thumb brushes once over my knuckles, a quiet check-in. “Breathe with me?” he says, barely above the hush of the stacks. We take oneslow inhale, one slower exhale, and my pulse climbs down out of the chandelier. “Did you get your book?” he asks.
I hold it up, hands steadier now. “History waits for no woman.”
He huffs a laugh, then looks at me, really looks, and for a second there’s something unguarded in his eyes that makes my stomach perform a small circus.
He lets go. The air cools between us. “Permits are signed. We’re official.” He changes the subject quickly.
“Of course we are,” I say, bright as tinsel, because if I don’t buffer myself with words, I might melt into a puddle of goo and ruin the maple--scented display.
We lock up at six. The sky is a watercolor smear of pink and gold over the hills, and the air tastes like wood-smoke and possibilities. Dex carries the cash bag while I wrangle Mr. Darcy into his carrier. Mr. Darcy makes his displeasure known with a sound like a tiny accordion dying.
“Be nice,” I tell the carrier. “We do not hiss at people who help us.”
He hisses again.
“Fine,” I say. “But tomorrow you’re being sweet to Dex for at least one minute as a personal growth exercise.”
Dex walks me to my car like he always does, because he’s either old--fashioned or he knows Main Street is haunted by bears after dark. I prefer the old-fashioned to the bears.
“Tomorrow,” he says, handing me the cash bag. Our fingers brush. Electricity flows up my arm. Ugh, biology is so dramatic.
“Tomorrow,” I echo. “Vendor calls, layout finalization, pumpkin pickup confirmed, signage, and?—”
“And you eat lunch,” he interrupts me.
“I had celery,” I defend myself. “Inside a tuna melt.”
He shakes his head, amused. “Text me when you’re home?”
“I will,” I say, because we’ve accidentally fallen into this habit where he makes sure I’m safe and fed and I pretend it’s purely logistical and not at all a problem for my circulatory system.
He heads for his truck as I buckle Mr. Darcy in and start my car. My phone buzzes with a new email.
Vernon Blackstone, Blackstone Development:Re: Time--Sensitive Offer.
I don't open it and instead I drive home with my jaw set and my playlist onWitches’ Night Out, and I promise the dusky trees and my cranky cat and my stubborn heart that I am going to save this bookstore and this town if it kills me.
