Page 36 of The Pumpkin Pact
“Technical term,” I say, wrecked.
She smiles and nods, a soft, satisfied curve of her lips, and presses a kiss to my cheek.“That,”she says, her voice a whisper,“was worth the wait.”
I laugh, a rough, breathless sound, and pull her close, my hands sliding down her back.“Definitely,”I agree, my voice a rasp.
But as I look at her, her eyes shining, her lips swollen, her body still trembling, I realize this isn’t just about the sex, as incredible as it was. It’s about what comes next. The questions, the uncertainty, the possibility of something more.
I don’t know what that something is, or where it will lead us. But as I hold her, the world narrowing to this—her, me, the quiet chaos of this backroom—I know I’m ready to find out.
The moment stretches, fragile and electric. I don’t pull away. I can’t. And as Harper’s fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me down for another kiss, I realize that, for now, it’s enough.
The future can wait. Right now, there’s only her, me, and the quiet chaos of this moment. And it’s perfect.
She laughs low, and a little dazed. “So, not fake.”
“Nothing about that was fake,” I say. “Nothing about any of this is fake.”
She drags her fingertips through my beard like she is checking for splinters. “Good. I don't think I have it in me to pretend anymore.”
“Then don't,” I say. “We don't owe anyone a performance.”
She searches my face. Whatever she sees there must pass her test, because her body softens under my hands and her smile turns private. We breathe together. The bookstore settles and clicks around us as if it approves.
Mr. Darcy chirps in the front room. Both of us start and then grin without moving.
“He knows everything,” she whispers.
“He's already composing the email subject line,” I whisper back. “Time Sensitive Offer.”
She snorts and shoves my shoulder. We untangle and tug our clothes back into place with the clumsy efficiency of people who would happily mess them up again. I help her smooth her cardigan. She helps me button a button I missed and flicks my collar flat with an affectionate precision that hits me low.
“I walked to work today, so will you walk me home?” she asks.
“Always,” I say.
We kill the window lights and leave the string of tiny pumpkins glowing. I grab the cash box and she grabs her keys, puts Mr. Darcy in his crate. We step onto the quiet street. The square looks like a party took a bow and left flowers on the stage. A paper bat skates along the pavement in the breeze, then sticks against the curb like that is where it was always meant to land.
We take the slow way back to her place. She points out a loose board on the florist’s step, and I add it to the list in my head. We pass Mel’s, and the bell tinks in the empty diner as someone wipes down a booth for morning. We stop under the lamppostwhere we chalked vendor numbers last night. The chalk ghosts are still there, pale squares on dark asphalt.
“I was scared today,” she says without looking at me. “When I saw him laughing with them. I felt it in my bones.”
“I was scared too,” I say. “The difference is I knew you would win.”
We reach her house. She hesitates on the stoop, looks up at me through lashes that should be illegal, and keys pause between her fingers.
“Yours or mine?” she asks.
“Both,” I say. “Often.”
Color touches her cheeks. She unlocks the door, and we climb the stairs in near silence except for the soft squeak of her socks and the creak of old treads that have heard it all before. At her door she turns, catches the front of my shirt, and tugs me down into a kiss that is not urgent now, just certain. It steals my breath anyway.
Inside, Mr. Darcy pads to the food bowl like a landlord collecting rent. He gives me a long look that says he knows what we did and he will allow it as long as I remain useful.
“Your Grace,” I say.
Harper lifts the cash box, and the cat blink-blesses it, then me, then her. He brushes her ankle and stalks away with his tail like a pennant.
We set the box on the table, lean shoulder to shoulder while the quiet wraps around us. I can feel the town even here, its hum slipping through the walls, the leftover joy threading the night.
