Page 8 of The Pumpkin Pact
“Noted.” I prop a sign on the counter so Mr. Darcy can judge it. He gives it a long, disdainful sniff, then turns his head and licks his paw as if he’s cleansing himself of my involvement.
“He’s warming up to you,” Harper lies.
Mr. Darcy hops down and rubs against my shin like a normal cat for exactly three seconds. I hold still, not breathing. Then he sinks a single elegant claw into my boot lace and tugs, eyes narrowed, like he’s letting me know he could end me at any time.
“Message received,” I tell him.
Harper hides a smile behind her hand. “He’s very selective.”
“Yeah?” I say, softer than I mean to. “Me too.”
Something moves in her eyes—curiosity, maybe something warmer—but before either of us can ruin it by acknowledging it, the door opens and the October air brings in Vernon Blackstone and his cologne, which smells like teakwood and litigation.
“Afternoon,” he says, fake-pleasant. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“Buying it?” Harper asks, sweet as antifreeze.
He chuckles. “Not yet. Just checking in on progress. Would hate for your… efforts to be in vain if the council decides to move forward.” He glances at my signs. “Fundraising? How quaint.”
I plant my hands on the counter and lean in just enough to make him choose between eye contact and retreat. He chooses eye contact; of course he does. “We’ll have numbers for the council,” I say. “Traffic, sales, donation totals. It’ll be hard to bulldoze a block that just paid for the library’s annex roof.”
“Mm,” he says, which is Vernon for 'I don’t like it when peasants find spreadsheets'. “Do let me know if you change your mind about my offer, Harper. I can make your exit quite comfortable.”
Harper’s smile sharpens. “How about I make your exit comfortable right now? There’s the door.”
Vernon’s gaze ticks to Mr. Darcy, who has assumed a sphinx pose on the sign stack with murder in his eyes. “Charming,” he says, which somehow sounds like an insult. “Enjoy your festival.”
He leaves. The bell chimes its little triumph behind him. Mr. Darcy yawns like a lion who just decided not to eat a gazelle.
We lay out the signs, place one in the window, stick a small one near the register. A mom and her kid come in; the kid goes feral in the children’s section in the way that only books and sugar can inspire. We help them pick a stack, and I spend ten minutes on the floor pretending to be an expert on dragons while Harper rings them up and manages to upsell a pumpkin--shaped bookmark and a glitter pen with a witch hat. Watching her in her element is like watching a storm front clear—charged, bright, inevitable.
When the shop quiets, we end up shoulder to shoulder at the counter, reviewing the layout again. Our elbows bump once, twice. Static or something less harmless jumps between us. I keep my voice even.
“Tomorrow I’ll mark vendor numbers in paint so the chalk doesn’t blow away. Gary’s dropping the spider boxes at eight. Fire marshal inspection at nine. Can you confirm the last bakery?”
“On it,” she says. “Also, I need to finalize the schedule flyer, rally the book club ladies, and design the ‘Keep Hollow Creek Cozy’ buttons.” She pauses. “You think the slogan is too much?”
“It’s exactly enough,” I say. “If it came with a cat glaring, we’d be unstoppable.”
She side--eyes Mr. Darcy. He blinks once, slowly, benevolent as a tiny tyrant. “He’ll consider licensing.”
We clean up. She slots cash into a cloth bag, locks the drawer, and I pretend I’m here for security and not because I like walking her to her car. When she wrestles Mr. Darcy into his carrier, the cat flattens himself like a stubborn pancake and emits a sound that could curdle cream. Somehow she wins. She always does.
At the door, I hold it open. The sky is turning rose--gold over the hills, and the first wisps of wood-smoke thread the air. Harper steps past me, and the scent of her—books and citrus and something I refuse to name—follows.
“Text me when you’re home,” I say, trying to make it sound casual and failing.
She quirks a brow. “You do realize I live four blocks away.”
“Still,” I say. “Humor me.”
She studies my face as if she’s trying to decide whether to tease me or trust me. “Okay,” she says finally, “but only because you got the spider boxes.”
“Romance is alive,” I deadpan.
She laughs, surprised out of herself, and it lands in my chest like a hammer wrapped in velvet. I step back, forcing distance before my body acts on the reckless urge to close the space, catch her chin, and find out if her mouth tastes like citrus.
On the sidewalk, we almost run into my mother coming out of Mel’s with a pie carrier and battle plans. Mom takes in the tableau—Harper with a cat carrier, me with a stack of signs—and smiles like a woman who just found a subplot.
