Page 5 of The Pumpkin Pact
At a red light, Mr. Darcy meets my gaze through the carrier grate. He blinks once, slowly, like a blessing. Or like he’s picturing Dex tripping into a pumpkin display. It really could go either way.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “I have a plan.”
He yawns, enormous and scornful. Apparently, he's calling me out on my shit.
“Okay,” I amend. “I have twelve color--coded spreadsheets and a strong dislike of men named Vernon. Happy now?”
The light turns green. Hollow Creek glows behind me—porch lights winking on, chimneys curling smoke into the lavender sky, the town square already half -dressed in orange and black garlands and grinning jack--o'--lanterns.
I grip the steering wheel, shoulders squaring, heartbeat evening out. "First, we plan. Then, we charm. Then, we win." It's my new motto.
Mr. Darcy meows dryly, which I choose to interpret as approval. I take it.
Tomorrow, the real work begins. Tonight, I’m going to feed the tyrant, answer emails with ruthless optimism, and practice lifting my left eyebrow just in case I need to release the kraken.
.
Chapter 2
Dex
The Hollow Creek Town Hall smells like floor wax, burnt coffee, and bureaucracy—the holy trinity of small--town governance. I claim the back row, partly because I like to keep my eyes on exits and partly because it keeps me away from the front where Vernon Blackstone is already shaking hands like a politician running unopposed. He’s in his usual uniform—tailored suit, smug smile, tie that probably costs more than my truck payment—and he’s doing that thing where he pretends to listen while scanning the room for a camera that does not exist or someone more important to schmooze than whomever he's talking to.
From my corner, I catch him lean toward Councilman Reeves, palm cupped like a secret. “Temporary use permits… generator decibel caps… cord runs across public right-of-way,” he murmurs. Reeves nods at a folder tabbed COMPLIANCE in smug gold letters. My shoulders go tight. If Vernon can’t win on charm, he’ll weaponize the rulebook.
I’m tempted to loosen the bolts on his chair to watch him topple over, but then I imagine Harper’s face if she finds out. That thought alone keeps me honest. Mostly.
Mayor Pickering gavels us into order and reads the agenda like he’s auditioning for a sleep app—road repairs, a water main, the library’s heating bill. A couple of items spark polite mutiny, but nothing really wakes the room until he reaches, “…and item seven, the Halloween Festival business.”
There it is. A collective perk -up like a colony of prairie dogs. Hollow Creek lives for events that include bunting. Mrs. Henderson sits two rows ahead with a notepad big enough for war strategy. The book club ladies—Eleanor, Dolly, Margot, Beatrice—are bunched together like an angry flock of geese ready to honk at anything that flaps. Three high schoolers in marching -band hoodies lean forward because this is the closest thing to entertainment on a Tuesday.
“Festival planning committee,” the mayor announces, “co--chairs Harper Venn and Dexter Rowen.”
A murmur ripples across the room. Half the town grin like they’ve already bought popcorn. The other half whispers about how long it’ll take for Harper to strangle me with bunting.
I lift a hand. “It’s Dex.”
“Duly noted,” the mayor says, clearly not noting it at all.
Vernon adjusts his cufflinks, leans back in his seat, and smirks. “A noble effort,” he says just loud enough to carry throughout the room. “Though I do wonder if such… passionate personalities can keep things running smoothly.”
Mrs. Henderson whirls in her seat. “Better than your soulless condos ever will, Vernon.”
Applause erupts. The book club ladies actually hiss, synchronized, at him. I hide my smile in my palm. This is why I stick around Hollow Creek despite the headaches, the town may be nosy, meddling, and obsessed with whether Harper and I secretly make out in broom closets, we don’t by the way, but they will absolutely go to battle against a developer armed with nothing but wit and knitting needles.
The mayor bangs his gavel—mostly for the drama—and dismisses the general crowd. “Committee members, please remain for planning.”
I make my way down front. Harper’s already there, hugging a clipboard like it owes her money. A few strands have escaped her bun in ways that shouldn’t be distracting but are. She sees me and narrows her eyes like she’s bracing for impact.
“Don’t,” she says before I even open my mouth.
“I didn’t say anything.” I raise my hands in defense.
“You were going to,” she accuses. “Probably something like, ‘Relax, Harper. It’ll be fine.’”
“Was not,” I lie. I was.
She tilts her head, unimpressed. Mr. Darcy could learn from her. “Go ahead. Get it out of your system.”
