Chapter 9 Pumpkin Patch Disaster
pumpkin patch disaster
. . .
Miles
Dusk had settled over the festival grounds, painting everything in shades of orange and purple, when I returned to our booth and found it destroyed.
Not just messy. Destroyed.
Cider crates lay split open, their contents pooling across the ground in sticky amber puddles.
Our carefully strung fairy lights hung in tangles, wires severed clean through.
Orange banners that Lila had spent hours hanging were slashed, ribbons of fabric fluttering in the evening breeze.
And the power, the precious electricity we'd fought the festival committee for, was completely dead.
My stomach dropped.
“No, no, no.” I rushed forward, my boots squelching through spilled cider, surveying the damage.
This wasn't just bad. This was catastrophic.
This booth was Lila's dream, her chance to prove the pop-up café could compete with the bigger, more established places.
Her shot at making something real out of the chaos she loved so much.
And someone had destroyed it.
My hands shook as I picked up a shattered pumpkin decoration, the pieces cutting into my palm. Anger bubbled up, hot and sharp, mixing with the panic clawing at my chest. Who would do this? Why?
“Jesus Christ.”
I turned to find Derek standing at the edge of the booth, his expression dark. He was still in his work clothes, sleeves rolled up, hair mussed like he'd been running his hands through it. His eyes swept over the damage, his jaw tightening.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I don't know. I just got back and found it like this.”
He stepped into the booth, careful to avoid the puddles, and crouched to examine one of the severed light strands. His fingers traced the cut, clean and deliberate.
“This wasn't an accident,” he said, his voice low.
“You think I don't know that?” The words came out harsher than I intended, but I couldn't help it. I felt like I was drowning, like everything was falling apart, and I didn't know how to fix it.
Derek stood, his gaze sharp. “I'm not your enemy here, Miles.”
“Aren't you? You've got the perfect booth. Perfect lighting. Perfect everything. Why wouldn't you want to knock out the competition?”
His expression hardened. “Because I'm not that petty. And because if I wanted to beat you, I'd do it fair and square, not by sabotaging your booth like some coward.”
I stared at him, my chest tight. Part of me wanted to believe him. Part of me was too angry and scared to trust anyone.
“Well, someone did this.” I gestured at the wreckage around us. “And I need to figure out who before Lila sees it and has a breakdown.”
“Then let's figure it out together.”
Before I could respond, footsteps echoed across the cobblestones.
I looked up to find Gavin strolling toward us, hands in the pockets of his tailored coat, a smirk playing at his lips.
He looked like he'd just walked out of a board meeting, every hair in place, every line of his suit sharp and crisp.
He stopped at the edge of our booth, surveying the damage with barely concealed amusement.
“Looks like the amateurs couldn't handle the pressure.” Gavin said.
Heat flared in my chest. “What did you say?”
“I said it's a shame when people get in over their heads. Competition can be brutal. Especially for those who aren't equipped to handle it.” His smile widened. “Maybe you two should stick to what you're good at. Whatever that is.”
Derek stepped forward, his expression cold. “You have something to do with this?”
“Me?” Gavin pressed a hand to his chest, feigning innocence. “I've been at my booth all evening. Ask anyone. Unlike some people, I don't need to resort to petty sabotage to win.”
“You're full of shit,” I said.
“And you're full of excuses.” He adjusted his cuffs, his smirk never wavering. “See you at the contest, boys. If you can manage to put yourselves back together by then.”
He walked away, whistling under his breath, and I wanted to chase after him. Wanted to grab him by his expensive collar and make him admit what he'd done. But Derek's hand on my arm stopped me.
“Don't,” he said quietly. “He's not worth it.”
“He just destroyed my booth.”
“I know. But going after him won't fix it. We need to focus on what we can control.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to rage and curse and break something. But Derek was right. Gavin was gone, and standing here fuming wasn't going to help Lila. Wasn't going to save the booth.
I took a shaky breath, forcing myself to calm down. “Okay. What do we do?”
Derek looked around, his expression thoughtful. “First, we salvage what we can. Then we rebuild.”
“We?”
He met my gaze, his eyes steady. “Yeah. We. You think I'm going to let that asshole win?”
Something in my chest loosened. Just a little. Just enough to make breathing easier.
“Alright,” I said. “Let's get to work.”
We worked in near silence, the evening air cooling around us as the festival grounds emptied. Most of the vendors had already packed up, heading home to rest before the contest tomorrow. But Derek and I stayed, picking through the wreckage, salvaging what we could.
He moved around the booth like he belonged there, lifting heavy crates without complaint, restringing lights with steady hands, his presence calm and grounding. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, surprised by how natural it felt. How easy.
For once, we weren't bickering. Weren't competing. We were just... working. Together.
“Hand me that extension cord,” Derek said, gesturing toward a tangle of wires near my feet.
I grabbed it, passing it over. Our fingers brushed, and I felt that familiar spark. The one that had been there since the haunted house. Since the closet. Since the moment he'd kissed me and everything had shifted.
“Thanks,” he murmured.
“Yeah.”
He climbed onto a crate to reach the top of the booth frame, muscles flexing under his shirt as he worked. I tried not to stare. Failed miserably.
“You're staring,” he said without looking down.
“I'm supervising.”
“Right.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Very thorough supervision.”
Heat crept up my neck. “Shut up and hang the lights.”
He laughed, soft and warm, and something in me eased. Despite the disaster, despite Gavin's sabotage, despite everything, I felt... okay. Better than okay.
Because Derek was here. And for the first time since this whole mess started, I wasn't alone.
We worked for another hour, the booth slowly coming back together. It wasn't perfect. The lights were jury-rigged with duct tape, the banners patched with safety pins, the whole thing held together with sheer stubbornness. But it was standing. And that was something.
Derek stepped back, surveying our work. “Not bad.”
“It's a disaster.”
“A functional disaster.”
I looked at the booth, then at him, and felt a laugh bubble up. Sharp and tired and a little hysterical. “This night is so fucked.”
“Completely.”
But he was smiling, and so was I, and suddenly the distance between us felt too small. Too charged. I could feel the heat radiating off him,
We stood there, the festival grounds quiet around us, string lights casting everything in a warm golden glow. The fog machines from earlier still pumped mist into the air, making everything feel dreamlike. Unreal.
And then he stepped closer.
Close enough that I could feel his breath against my lips. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. Close enough to make my pulse kick into overdrive.
He kissed me.
But it was brief. Sweet. A promise more than a claim. His lips brushed mine, soft and careful, and when he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
“We should probably...” I gestured vaguely at the booth around us. “Finish cleaning up.”
“Right. Yeah.” But he didn't step back. Didn't let go of my hand.
We worked in silence for another twenty minutes, putting the final touches on the salvaged booth. Every time our hands brushed, I felt that spark. Every time he looked at me, I forgot what I was doing.
By the time we finished, the sun had fully set, and the festival grounds were nearly empty. Just a few vendors packing up, the hum of generators winding down.
“Coffee?” Derek asked suddenly.
I blinked. “What?”
“You keep saying my coffee is too pretentious. Show me how to make a proper pumpkin spice latte. The chaotic way.”
Despite everything, I smiled. “You want me to teach you?”
“I want to understand what makes your customers come back. Even with your disaster of a booth.”
“That's the nicest insult you've ever given me.”
“I'm growing.”
We walked to my booth, which somehow looked even more pathetic next to Derek's sleek setup. But Derek didn't comment. Just watched as I pulled out our battered espresso machine, the one that hissed like it was possessed.
“Okay,” I said, grabbing the pumpkin spice syrup. “First rule: don't measure anything.”
“That's chaos.”
“That's the point.”
I poured syrup into a cup, eyeballing it, and Derek moved closer, watching over my shoulder. Close enough that I could feel the heat of him, smell the coffee and clean laundry scent that was becoming dangerously familiar.
“How much is that?” he asked.
“Enough.”
“That's not an answer.”
“It's the only answer you're getting.”
He laughed, and the sound rumbled through me. I pulled the espresso shot, added steamed milk, and started to pipe whipped cream on top. That's when Derek's hand covered mine.
“Let me,” he murmured, his chest pressed against my back now, his arm guiding mine. “Like this?”
My brain short-circuited. His hand was warm over mine, steady, and the way he was pressed against me made it impossible to think about anything other than how good he felt.
“Yeah,” I managed, my voice rougher than intended. “Just like that.”
We finished the drink together, his hand never leaving mine, and when we stepped apart, I had to remind myself to breathe.
“There,” I said. “One chaotic PSL.”
He took a sip, his eyes on me the whole time. “Not bad.”
“High praise from the latte art snob.”