Chapter 6
Dex
H ollow Creek wakes up buzzing like a hive after last night’s council meeting.
By the time I grab a coffee at Mel’s, three separate people slap me on the back and say congratulations, though no one specifies if they mean Harper’s speech, the delayed vote, or the kiss.
Probably the kiss. Word spreads here faster than maple syrup on a hot griddle.
Mom slides a to-go lid across the counter without looking up. “Straighten your collar, soldier.”
I reach up; she swats my hand away with two fingers and flicks her eyes toward the door. Harper’s already halfway across the diner, cardigan, clipboard, comet tail of purpose.
“Hold still,” Harper says when she reaches me. She smooths the rumpled collar, knuckles grazing my throat; electricity does a quiet, treacherous circuit. Her brows tip as if she’s surprised too.
From the pie case, Mom’s reflection folds her arms, approving. Optics, yes—but something warmer hums underneath.
“Better,” Harper murmurs, eyes flicking to my mouth and away so fast I could pretend I imagined it. I don’t.
I can’t shake it. The way she looked standing at that podium, fierce and bright, voice steady even when her knees wobbled. The way she glanced at me like she needed an anchor, and somehow I got the privilege to be it.
And then afterward, when I kissed her—twice—like it was the most natural thing in the world, the ground might as well have tilted under me.
I’ve been through firefights, late-night patrols, and med board evaluations that decided my future, but none of it has ever scrambled my head, my pulse, or my sense of direction the way Harper Venn does with one look and a kiss.
So I do what I always do when my brain’s a mess: I work.
Festival prep is in full swing. I spend the morning chalking vendor numbers on the square, checking electrical hookups with Gary from the co-op, and hauling hay bales until my arms burn.
Anything to keep busy. Anything to keep from replaying the way her lips felt under mine.
Of course, keeping busy doesn’t keep Harper away.
She’s everywhere—coordinating volunteers with the authority of a general, pinning flyers with surgical precision, rearranging pumpkins like they’re troops in formation, and somehow making even the chaos look good.
Every laugh she throws across the square cuts through the noise and hooks me in before I can look away.
Every time I look up, she’s across the square with her clipboard, laughing with Dolly, scolding Beatrice about zip ties, or smoothing her hair back from her face with that unconscious flick of her wrist that undoes me.
And every time she catches me watching, my chest does this stupid kick, like my heart forgot which direction to march.
By noon, the square looks half-finished but promising.
Vendors set up their booths, the book club ladies are still debating ribbon colors, and Vernon lurks on the sidelines pretending to check his watch while really checking who’s talking to whom.
He catches my eye once, his smile smug enough to curdle milk.
Something’s brewing, and I don’t like it.
I spot him angling his phone over the cord runs, snapping photos like a claims adjuster.
He crouches by a spider box, zooms in on the label, then pans to the sidewalk seam where a cable will cross.
“Right-of-way, temporary power, decibel caps,” he mutters into the mic, like he’s feeding a list to someone who bites.
Gary calls me over to check the power cables. He’s grumbling about amperage while I’m half-distracted watching Harper string orange ribbon with Dolly. “She’s got you running in circles, huh?” Gary mutters, not even looking at me.
I grunt. “Festivals take work.”
Gary snorts. “Didn’t say the festival. You know this whole town’s betting on you two.”
Great. No pressure or anything.
I head to The Wandering Page to deliver extra signage. Harper’s now at the counter, pen flying over a notebook, Mr. Darcy sprawled across a stack of books like a furry blockade to his person. He lifts his head when I come in, glares, and thumps his tail once. Approval denied.
“Busy?” I ask.
“Only if you count seventeen calls, three deliveries, and Mrs. Henderson trying to add a kissing booth to the festival—with you as the main attraction,” she says without looking up.
I choke. “A what?”
She glances up, eyes sparkling. “She claims it’s for charity.”
“Not happening.”
“Relax, soldier,” Harper says, smirking. “I already vetoed it.”
We fall into an easy rhythm, sorting flyers and checking lists.
Our hands brush once, twice, and each time it feels less accidental and more like inevitability.
When I lean across her to stack flyers, my arm brushes hers; she doesn’t move, so neither do I.
Heat lingers. Her perfume—citrus and paper—threads under my skin, and I have to step back before I forget the difference between fake optics and the thing I actually want.
My chest tightens. If this is fake, it’s the most real fake I’ve ever lived through.
Cole strolls in around two, still wearing that leather jacket like it’s part of his bloodstream. “Rowen! Harper! The square looks good enough to land a helicopter on.”
“Please don’t,” Harper says. “We’re already over budget.”
Cole grins. “Relax, just an observation. But I did see that slick developer—Vince, Vance, whatever his name is—sweet-talking Councilman Riggs outside Mel’s. Looked cozy. He had a folder tabbed COMPLIANCE.” Cole’s mouth twisted. “Gold letters. Guy’s brand is smug.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And he’s weaponizing the rulebook.”
Harper stiffens. I want to reach for her hand right there in front of everyone, but instead I clench my jaw. “His name is Vernon, and it figures.”
Cole slaps my shoulder. “We’ll keep an eye on him. You just keep the love story believable.”
“Excuse me?” Harper squeaks.
Cole winks. “The whole town’s invested now. Don’t let your fans down.”
She groans and drops her forehead to the counter. Mr. Darcy immediately abandons her, purring and weaving around Cole’s legs like he’s found a new favorite human. Traitor.
Cole lingers, telling war stories and razzing me about my beard until Harper laughs so hard she nearly spills her coffee. I glare, but the sound warms me, anyway. Cole eventually drifts out, promising to check back later. Harper watches him go, shaking her head. “I like him.”
I grunt. “Of course you do.”
The rest of the day blurs in hay, hammering, and way too many pumpkin deliveries.
Dolly recruits me to help hoist an archway, Beatrice nearly singes my eyebrows lighting test lanterns, and Mrs. Henderson corners me with questions about my “intentions” toward Harper until I fake a phone call to escape.
Through it all, Harper’s laugh keeps drifting across the square, and each time it drags me back to last night.
At one point, I end up shoulder to shoulder with her in the gazebo, watching her square off with the marching band director about set lists. She taps her clipboard like it’s a gavel and says firmly, “Two jazz standards and one spooky number,” refusing to budge.
“Spooky? Jazz isn’t spooky,” he argues, eyebrows shooting up as if the very concept offends him.
“Monster Mash counts,” she shoots back, scribbling it onto the program with dramatic finality. She tosses the band director a look that dares him to argue again, then straightens. I lean in close, shoulder brushing hers, drawn in by the spark of triumph still flashing in her eyes.
“You terrify people into compliance,” I murmur, half in awe, half in warning, because watching her command a room does dangerous things to me. She laughs low. I set my palm at the small of her back to guide her past a dangling cord and leave it there half a breath too long.
She turns into my palm, that soft, accidental-on-purpose press that short-circuits my common sense. “Careful,” she says, not moving away.
“Trying,” I lie.
Her grin nearly knocks the air out of me.
Heat coils low in my chest, and for a heartbeat I can’t think about crowd flow or vendor permits—I can only think about her lips and how close they are.
I swallow hard, force myself back a step, retreating before I do something like kiss her in broad daylight with half the town watching.
By dusk, when the lanterns glow along Main Street, Harper comes off a phone call and leans into my side to show me a text; we both forget to lean back. The crowd swallows us, and for three seconds it feels like we’re alone in the noise. I’m bone-tired yet buzzing with leftover adrenaline.
Vernon slinks past the gazebo, his phone to his ear.
“—then cite temporary use permits , cord covers across municipal ROW, and amplified sound after 8 p.m. Get me enforcement on site,” he says, voice low-knife.
He meets my eyes. “Hope you’re ready, Rowen,” he says smoothly.
“Wouldn’t want the festival to collapse under its own weight. ”
“Try me,” I answer low, voice edged with challenge.
He tucks his phone away, still smiling. “Oh, I intend to.”
I watch him disappear into the twilight, shoulders tight.
Around me, the square glows warm and alive—Harper’s laugh echoing, Cole’s voice carrying, lanterns bobbing like stars come down to earth.
And just like that, I know we’re in for a fight.
Not just to pull off this festival, but to keep everything that matters standing.