Chapter 12 #2
Sophie opens her portfolio with a flourish, revealing beautifully designed banners in warm autumn colors. “I was thinking these for the main entrance, and smaller versions for each food booth. What do you think?”
I lean forward, studying the designs. They’re perfect—elegant but festive, with hand-lettered fonts that give them a rustic charm. “These are gorgeous, Sophie.”
“And I’ve finished painting all the directional signs,” Molly says softly, her voice barely audible over the coffee shop chatter. “Pumpkins pointing toward the kids’ activities, corn stalks for the food vendors, maple leaves for the craft booths.”
“What about the kids’ events?” I ask, feeling myself getting drawn into the excitement. “Are we still doing the pumpkin painting station?”
“Absolutely,” Sophie says with authority, consulting her notes. “Plus we added a scarecrow building workshop—kids can stuff their own mini scarecrows to take home. And there’s the costume parade on Saturday afternoon.”
My chest warms with genuine enthusiasm. “What about story time? We could set up hay bales in a circle under the big maple tree and have local volunteers read autumn stories.”
Molly’s eyes light up, though she speaks hesitantly. “I could... I could paint a backdrop? Maybe a cozy forest scene with woodland animals?”
“And hot chocolate stations throughout the grounds,” I add, ideas flowing. “Not just one central location, but little carts so families don’t have to walk back and forth.”
Declan grins. “You’re really getting into this festival planning thing.”
I am. For the first time in months, I feel genuinely excited about something I’m working on. Not stressed, not overwhelmed—excited.
Sam checks his watch and stands up. “I should get back to the shop. Mrs. Peterson’s car won’t fix itself.” He pauses by Molly’s chair, reaching out to gently wipe a smudge of yellow paint from her cheek with his thumb. “You’ve got paint on you.”
Molly’s cheeks turn bright pink, her breath catching as she freezes under his gentle touch. “Oh, th-thanks. Hazard of the job,” she whispers.
Sam doesn’t seem to notice her blush or the way she’s practically melting under his attention, already heading toward the door. “See you later, troublemakers. Try not to take over the entire town while I’m gone.”
I don’t miss the way Molly’s gaze follows him until he disappears outside, or the soft, dreamy smile that lingers on her face.
As the girls spread out their materials and start coordinating final details, I find myself watching the door long after Sam disappears. When’s the last time I’ve seen my brother with anyone? He’s always at the shop, working late, fixing cars. Does he even date?
I realize with a pang that I don’t know much about Sam’s love life at all. Eight years of careful distance meant I missed so much—not just the big things, but the everyday details that make up a person’s life. Who has he dated? Who has he loved? The guilt settles in my chest like a stone.
“Hazel?” Sophie’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “What do you think about the lighting timeline?”
I blink back to the present, focusing on the timeline she’s sketched out. “Sorry, what was the question?”
“String lights,” Molly says softly. “We need to know when to start hanging them so they’re all ready by Friday afternoon.”
“Right. The lights.” I scan their notes, my brain shifting back into planning mode. “We should start Wednesday morning, work in sections. That gives us buffer time if weather delays us.”
We spend another twenty minutes finalizing details—who’s bringing what supplies, which volunteers are assigned to which areas, backup plans for rain.
The familiar rhythm of project management feels good, purposeful.
Sophie takes notes with the efficiency of someone who’s used to organizing information, while Molly sketches out rough layouts for the backdrop she’s envisioning.
“I think that covers everything,” Sophie says finally, closing her portfolio with satisfaction. “This is going to be the best Harvest Festival the town’s ever seen.”
“Thanks to you,” Molly adds, gathering her paint-stained supplies. “None of this would be happening without your organizational skills.”
“It’s a team effort,” I insist, but I’m smiling. After months of feeling useless, it’s nice to feel needed again.
After they leave, the coffee shop settles into its afternoon lull.
The lunch rush is over, and the steady stream of people wanting to thank me has finally slowed to a trickle.
I pull my laptop closer and dive back into the inventory system, lines of code flowing across the screen as I build something clean and functional for my parents.
But even as I work, part of my mind keeps drifting to tonight. Luke’s surprise date. The anticipation sits warm in my chest, mixing excitement with nervousness in a way I haven’t felt in years. What does he have planned? Will it be awkward? Will we run out of things to talk about?
I catch myself smiling at the screen and shake my head. When did I become the type of person who gets giddy about dates?
The afternoon passes quickly, lost in code and database architecture.
When I finally look up, the coffee shop has transformed into its evening mode—softer lighting, the scent of Mom’s dinner preparations drifting from the kitchen, the comfortable murmur of regulars settling in with books and newspapers.
Eight o’clock can’t come fast enough.
* * *
The coffee shop closes at eight on the dot, and I’m the last one packing up.
Mom and Dad left an hour ago, trusting me with the closing routine like I never left.
There’s something comforting about turning off the espresso machine, wiping down the last table, counting the register—simple, methodical tasks that ground me.
I lock up and pocket the keys, then glance across the street. The firehouse is quiet, lights still on but no sign of movement. I can’t see Luke anywhere, though I spot Ash locking up one of the equipment bays.
Instead of waiting, I decide to walk down Main Street to check out the early festival decorations.
The evening air is perfect—crisp enough to need my jacket but not cold enough to rush.
Streetlights cast warm pools of light on the sidewalk, and I can see the first hints of what the town will look like in a few days.
Orange and gold garland drapes between the lamp posts, and several shop windows already sport autumn displays. The bank has a scarecrow sitting on a bale of hay by their front door, and Murphy’s Pharmacy painted fall leaves on their windows that catch the light beautifully.
I’m admiring the way someone has arranged pumpkins of all sizes along the steps of the Town Hall when a strong arm suddenly wraps around my waist, pulling me back against a hard chest.
“Are you sneaking away from our date?” Luke’s voice is low against my ear, his breath sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with the cool air.
My heart hammers against my ribs as heat floods through me. The solid warmth of his body pressed against my back makes my knees weak, and when his lips brush the shell of my ear as he speaks, I have to grip his forearm to stay steady.
“What if I was?” I manage, my voice breathier than intended.
His soft chuckle vibrates through his chest and into my back. “Then I’d catch you and bring you back home.”
He presses a soft kiss to the side of my neck, just below my ear, and I practically melt against him. The simple contact sends electricity shooting through my entire body, awakening every nerve ending.
I turn in his arms, and that’s when I notice he’s holding something above our heads. I look up to see a tiny fake pumpkin with autumn leaves attached to it.
“What is that?” I ask, confused. “What are you doing?”
Luke’s grin is absolutely wicked. “It’s fall’s mistletoe. Pumpkin-toe, if you will.” His blue eyes dance with mischief. “Which means you have to kiss me now.”
“There’s no such thing as pumpkin-toe,” I say, amused by his attempt to steal a kiss.
“There is,” he insists with mock seriousness. “For us, there is.”
I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out of my head. “That is literally the cheesiest, most ridiculous thing you could possibly say.”
His face falls slightly.
“But,” I add, reaching up to cup his face in my hands, “I’ll kiss you anyway.”
His smile returns, slow and satisfied, just before I pull him down to meet my lips. The kiss starts soft, tentative, but the moment our mouths connect, something ignites between us.
Luke’s arms tighten around me, pulling me flush against his chest as his lips move against mine with growing urgency.
I can taste the hint of coffee on his tongue, feel the slight roughness of his stubble against my skin.
When he deepens the kiss, I melt into him completely, my hands fisting in his shirt.
A soft moan escapes me when his teeth gently catch my bottom lip, and I feel him smile against my mouth before his tongue sweeps back in to tangle with mine again. The fake pumpkin falls forgotten to the sidewalk as his hands slide up to cup my face, angling my head to take the kiss deeper.
Heat pools low in my belly as he presses me back against the lamp post, his body caging me in. One of his hands tangles in my hair while the other traces down my spine, leaving fire in its wake. I arch into him, needing to be closer, needing more.
“God, Hazel,” he breathes against my lips, his voice rough with want. The sound sends shivers racing through me.
I pull him back down for another kiss, this one hungrier, more desperate. My hands roam over his broad shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt. When he groans low in his throat, the vibration travels straight through me.
We’re completely lost in each other, the autumn evening and the decorated street fading away until there’s nothing but this—his mouth on mine, his hands on my body, the intoxicating heat building between us.
It’s only the distant sound of car doors slamming that finally breaks us apart, both of us breathing hard, foreheads pressed together as we try to regain our composure.
He grins suddenly. “I told you pumpkin-toe was a thing.”
I can’t help but laugh as he wraps his arm around my shoulders.