Chapter 5
pumpkin guts
. . .
Derek
Isigned up for the pumpkin-carving contest purely out of spite. Not my finest moment, but watching Miles’s face go from mild annoyance to proprietary horror when he read my name on the sign-up sheet made it worth it.
He was leaning against the volunteer booth in the town square, arms folded, expression pitched somewhere between “do not speak to me” and “I am regretting existence.” When he saw me approach, his whole body pulled tight, like a bowstring.
“You serious?” he muttered without looking up.
“Deadly serious.” I dropped my bag on the table and flashed him what I hoped was a disarming grin. “Can’t handle a little competition?”
“This isn’t competition,” he said, finally meeting my eyes. “This is you being obnoxious.”
“I prefer ambitious,” I said.
Barb, the volunteer with the floral name tag and the air of someone who’d assigned everyone in town their unofficial roles, peered between us with evident delight. “Oh, the coffee boys! Everyone’s been talking about you.”
“Coffee boys?” Miles’s left eyebrow climbed. “I’m twenty-eight.”
“And he’s thirty,” Barb deadpanned, pointing at me like I wasn’t standing right there. “Boys to me, sweetheart.”
Miles’s scowl deepened. I handed Barb a marker, scrawled my name on a sticker, and slapped it on my chest. Miles did the same, his handwriting tight and efficient, like punctuation could save him from whatever came next.
“Tables are over there,” Barb said, gesturing toward the square’s center. “Pumpkins, knives, directions. We start in ten minutes. May the best carver win.”
He stormed off before I could remind him that he had no idea what “best” meant in my vocabulary. I followed because of course I did.
The square had been transformed into a Halloween carnival—hay bales circled the event like a low fence, string lights crisscrossed above us, and jack-o’-lanterns of various ages and artistic confidence glared from every available surface.
The air was thick with cider and something sugary and fried; somewhere behind us, a band was trying to sound spooky and failing adorably.
People moved in cozy clumps, cheeks flushed from the chill and the cider, scarves and knit hats brightening the crowd.
Long tables ran down the center, each covered in newspaper and lined with pumpkins: squat, tall, lopsided, perfectly round.
Carving tools were organized like an operating theatre—knives, scoops, bowls of water, stacks of dish towels.
The whole setup had the comforting efficiency of a town that liked to do things properly even when it was ridiculous.
I chose a pumpkin that sat like a silent promise—round, smooth, no scars. It felt like the right canvas. Miles, in a deliberately defiant move, grabbed what looked like a pumpkin that had lost a fight with a bowling ball and dumped it in front of him with a theatrical thud.
“You picked that?” I asked. My eyebrow arched.
“It has character,” he said, patting it as if it were a stubborn animal. “Underdog energy.”
“It has a dent the size of my fist,” I corrected.
“Underdog energy,” he repeated, as if repetition made bad taste a virtue. He plunged his knife into the pumpkin with more force than finesse and began sawing around the stem like he was trying to amputate something that’d offended him.
I made cleaner, careful cuts—deliberate, efficient. The top came away in a near-perfect lid. Very satisfying. Very show-off.
Miles glanced at my neat opening and scowled. “Show-off,” he said without humor.
“It’s called skill,” I replied. “And restraint.”
“It’s called control freakery,” he shot back.
“Jealousy looks bad on you,” I said. “Not my problem.”
He rolled his eyes, then leaned over his pumpkin with the sort of concentration people reserve for childhood crushes and tax forms. His curls kept falling into his face; he pushed them back, hands already slick with orange.
The seeds and pulp smelled like the kitchen at home on a good autumn morning—comforting and messy at once.
I scooped my seeds into the bowl with practiced motions.
Miles worked like a man who’d decided brute force could stand in for planning.
He yanked at fistfuls of pulp and flung them in the general direction of his bowl, only half of it making the intended landing.
Newspaper caught the rest in sticky orange clumps.
“You’re making a mess,” I observed.
“You’re making me want to stab something,” he said without looking up.
“Which—pumpkin or me?” I asked, letting the innuendo hang like the scent of spice in the air.
He paused, glancing over with the smallest, most dangerous smile. “Haven’t decided yet.”
I let a laugh out. People around us were watching now, some smiling, some filming on their phones.
The attention seemed to annoy him, which of course made me enjoy it more.
I sketched on my pumpkin, mapping out clean triangle eyes and a jaunty, crooked grin, adding a few decorative swoops for personality.
Classic, elevated. A face built to look good on porches for a week.
Miles, meanwhile, attacked his pumpkin with an abstract approach. He carved a jagged mouth that looked like it’d survived a fight, hacked at the eyes, and at one point nearly punched through to the back. He cursed under his breath, loud enough for anyone who cared to listen.
“Do you have a plan?” I asked, watching him.
“Chaos,” he said simply. “And maybe reckless charm.”
“That is not a plan.”
“It’s honest,” he countered. “And it gets results.”
When he finished a particularly furious tug, something wet and cold splattered across my forearm. I looked down to find a smear of pumpkin guts sliding toward my elbow. Miles was grinning, the picture of unapologetic mischief.
“Really?” I said.
“Oops,” he said, in a tone that made it clear apology was optional.
I grabbed a handful of seeds and, with the subtlety of a schoolkid, flicked them at him like ammunition. They stuck to his shirt.
“Oh, you are so dead,” he said, mock-menacing.
He retaliated with a flinging maneuver that would have made a baseball coach proud. Two fistfuls of pumpkin pulp arced through the air. One splattered on my shoulder, the other hit my chest with a wet, cold smack and started to soak through my shirt.
The table beside us erupted with laughter. Someone cheered. A phone hovered, recording.
All that heat in the world couldn’t compete with the way Miles laughed—open, bright, genuine—when he thought no one was watching. It was the sound of someone surprised to be allowed to enjoy himself. It hit me like a jolt.
I lunged without thinking. We slipped on the scattered guts, our feet sliding the way they only do on newspaper coated in pumpkin innards, and we collided, a graceless heap of limbs and laughter. I landed on top of him; the impact shoved the air from both our lungs.
For a few suspended seconds, everything narrowed to his weight beneath me, the rasp of his breath, the faint metallic tang of salt and cider on his skin.
His hands, warm and steady, gripped my shirt.
Up close, I could see flecks of gold in his brown eyes.
His lashes were damp with autumn air. He was impossibly close.
If I wanted to, I could tilt my head and kiss him. The thought was so immediate and hungry it made my pulse thrum. His breath hitched. His voice came out low and rough. “If you wanted me on my back,” he said, “you could’ve just asked.”
I laughed, sharp and a little breathless, and slid off him. My heart was fluttering in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. I offered him a hand; he took it, steadying himself with a grip that lingered a fraction too long.
We stood for a beat, palms still touching, proximity electric and absurd. Then someone in the crowd whistled—loud and theatrical—and both our hands dropped like they’d been scalded.
“Well,” I said, brushing pumpkin from my jeans. “That was productive.”
“You’re insane,” he said, wiping orange from his cheek.
“You started it,” I said.
“And I'm finishing it.” He bent down, grabbing a piece of pumpkin from the ground, and I backed away, hands raised in surrender.
“Truce?”
“Never.”
He threw it, and I ducked, laughing as it sailed over my head. The crowd was eating it up, cheering us on like we were gladiators in some kind of absurd arena. And maybe we were. Coffee rivals turned pumpkin warriors, covered in guts and grinning like idiots.
I'd never had this much fun in my life.
Barb's voice cut through the chaos, amplified by a megaphone. “Alright, everyone! Time's up! Step away from your pumpkins!”
Miles and I froze, staring at each other, then at the disaster we'd created. My pumpkin was half-finished, one eye carved but the other untouched. Miles's looked like it had been through a blender.
“We're screwed,” he said.
“Completely.”
But I was still grinning, and so was he.
Barb and two other judges made their way down the tables, inspecting each pumpkin with exaggerated seriousness. When they got to ours, Barb took one look, then another, then started laughing so hard she had to lean on the table for support.
“What happened here?” she wheezed.
“Art,” Miles said, deadpan.
“Chaos,” I corrected.
“Both.” Barb wiped her eyes, still giggling. “Well, you two certainly made an impression.”
“Is that good or bad?” I asked.
“Yes.”
The judges moved on, and Miles and I stood there, covered in pumpkin guts, waiting for the verdict.
When Barb finally announced the winners, neither of our names were called.
A woman with an intricately carved haunted house won first place, and a kid who couldn't have been older than ten took second with a surprisingly detailed skull.
“Robbed,” Miles muttered.
“Completely.”
But the crowd was still laughing, still cheering, and I realized we'd won something better than a ribbon. We'd won their attention. Their affection. And maybe, just maybe, we'd won each other's too.
I turned to Miles, brushing a piece of pumpkin from his hair without thinking. The gesture was small, almost tender, and his eyes widened, his breath catching.
“You've got...” I trailed off, suddenly aware of how close we were again. How easy it would be to close the distance. To kiss him right here, in front of everyone.
“Thanks,” he said quietly, and the word felt heavier than it should.
For once, we weren't bickering. Weren't competing. We were just... us. Standing together, covered in pumpkin guts, laughing at the absurdity of it all. And it felt good. Right.
Dangerous.
“What do we have here?”
The voice was smooth, polished, and dripping with condescension.
I turned to find a man walking toward us, hands in the pockets of his tailored slacks, a smirk on his too-perfect face.
He looked like he'd stepped out of a corporate ad, all sharp lines and expensive cologne.
His black hair was slicked back, his suit immaculate, and everything about him screamed money and arrogance.
Gavin Hale. I recognized him immediately. Owner of the chain coffee shop that had been trying to edge into town for months.
“Gavin,” I said, my voice flat.
“Derek.” His smile widened, sharp and predatory. “And you must be Miles. I've heard so much about you.”
Miles crossed his arms, his expression guarded. “Can't say the same.”
“Oh, don't worry. You will.” Gavin's gaze swept over us, taking in the pumpkin guts, the messy table, the crowd still watching us with interest. “Quite the display. Very... childish.”
“It's called having fun,” I said, my jaw tightening. “You should try it sometime.”
“Fun doesn't pay the bills, Derek. You of all people should know that.”
There it was. The dig. The reminder that I was struggling to keep my café afloat while his corporate machine churned out profits. My hands clenched into fists, and I forced myself to breathe.
“What do you want, Gavin?”
“Nothing. Just thought I'd stop by and see what all the fuss was about.” He glanced at Miles, his smile turning sly. “You two are quite the talk of the town. Coffee rivals, pumpkin gladiators. It's adorable, really.”
“Adorable?” Miles's voice was sharp, dangerous. “You got something to say?”
“Just that small-town theatrics can only take you so far. At the end of the day, people want quality. Consistency. Something they can rely on.” He straightened his cuffs, his expression smug. “Something you two can't provide.”
I stepped forward, but Miles grabbed my arm, holding me back. His grip was firm, grounding, and I forced myself to stay calm.
“We're doing just fine,” Miles said, his voice low.
“For now.” Gavin's smile didn't waver. “Enjoy your little festival. I'll see you at the contest.”
He walked away, leaving a trail of expensive cologne and barely concealed contempt in his wake. I watched him go, my blood boiling, my hands still clenched.
“That guy's going to be a problem,” I muttered.
Miles released my arm, his expression thoughtful. “Good. I like problems.”
I glanced at him, surprised, and he grinned. That same sharp, defiant grin that made my chest tighten and my pulse kick up.
“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the booths. “Let's get cleaned up before someone mistakes us for actual pumpkins.”
“Speak for yourself. I look great.”
“You look like you fought a pumpkin and lost.”
“I'll take that as a compliment.”
We walked back toward the booths, still covered in pumpkin guts, still grinning like idiots.
The crowd parted for us, some people laughing, others taking photos.
And for the first time since I'd opened my café, I didn't care about the competition.
Didn't care about winning or losing or proving myself.
I just cared about the guy walking beside me, the one who made me laugh harder than I had in years, the one who looked at me like I was worth the trouble.
And maybe I was.