Chapter 3
Harper
M el’s Diner is the beating heart of Hollow Creek gossip, which is why I should’ve known better than to agree to meet Dex here for a 'quick vendor check-in'. Quick doesn’t exist in this booth--lined coliseum of chatter.
The second I walk in, the bell jingles like a boxing match starting, and every head swivels in my direction. Wonderful.
Mrs. Henderson waves from a corner booth as if I’m the headliner of a Broadway show.
“Harper! Over here!” she trills. The Williamson twins are already perched with pie at the counter, looking like they’ve rehearsed their synchronized eyebrow raises for this very moment.
Dolly and Beatrice flank the counter, armed with coffee and clipboards.
Even Eleanor Rowen—Dex’s mother and Hollow Creek’s unofficial general—is behind the counter wielding a pie server like a sword.
“Dex,” I hiss under my breath as he holds the door. “You didn’t tell me you invited the entire Greek chorus for optics.” He smirks, infuriatingly unbothered. “Thought you liked efficiency.”
Play the plan. Do it for the annex fund. “Efficiency is three emails and a color--coded spreadsheet, not the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Sit,” Eleanor orders, pointing her pie server toward a booth that’s already set with two mugs of coffee. One black, Dex’s; one with cream and sugar, mine. Of course, she knows our coffee order by heart. This trip is feeling more and more like some sort of setup.
Right. Beat one: booth by the window, coffees preloaded, friendly audience. Eleanor’s notes to the letter. Play the plan.
I slide into the booth, Dex opposite me. Mr. Darcy is not here, thank God, but I can feel his spirit judging my life choices from afar, and right now I would have to agree with him.
“So,” Mrs. Henderson says, leaning forward like she’s about to hear state secrets. “When did the two of you finally admit you were destined to be together?”
I choke on coffee, spilling some of it down my chin and some on the table. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, don’t be coy,” Dolly says, twirling her pen and wiggling her eyebrows like a cartoon matchmaker.
I catch the movement and groan, while Dex actually chokes back a laugh into his coffee. “We all saw you leaving the shop together every night this week. You looked very cozy.”
“Carrying signage,” Dex clarifies. Dry as dust. “And a cat carrier. That’s all.”
“Symbolic!” Beatrice declares.
I press a hand to my forehead and wave my free one as if I can physically stop this gossip freight train. “We’re not—this is not?—”
“They’re co--chairing the festival,” Eleanor cuts in smoothly, as if she’s announcing an engagement. “Which is practically the same thing.”
Laughter ripples around the diner. I consider crawling under the table and living there forever, maybe even pulling the tablecloth with me for camouflage.
Dex, the traitor, hides a grin in his mug, and I fling him a glare sharp enough to cut diamonds.
I will kill him without thinking twice about it—better yet, I’ll let Mr. Darcy handle him, claws and all.
“Fine,” I say, because clearly denial will not save me. “Yes, we’re working together. No, it’s not romantic. We’re simply two professionals with complementary skills.”
“Mm-hmm,” Mrs. Henderson hums and nods her head, writing something in her notebook. Probably planning our wedding date, where we’re going to live, and how many babies we’re having. Spoiler: zero because we’re not dating.
Eleanor sets down two plates of pie—apple for Dex, pumpkin for me. “Eat. You’ll need your strength to fight off that leech. Vernon’s been sniffing around again.”
“Like a bloodhound in Armani,” Dolly mutters.
“More like a vulture,” I say, stabbing my pie. “But the festival’s going to shut him down. We’ll have numbers, donors, press... the works just in time for the next town council meeting. He can’t bulldoze community spirit, and the town council will see that.”
“Spoken like a true heroine,” Mrs. Henderson sighs.
Dex shifts, leans forward. “Speaking of numbers—we need to finalize vendor placement before Gary drops the spider boxes tomorrow. Families should flow toward the bookstore. Harper, you good with the cider press placement?”
“Yes,” I say, then pause. “Wait. If we put the magician near the gazebo, we can funnel kids past the author table. Parents with wallets open—BAM—books sold.”
“Strategic,” he says, scribbling notes. His eyes meet mine, warm with approval, and my stomach does a little backflip.
Rude. I want to yell at the whole diner to stop staring and let us plan in peace, but at the same time I secretly love the way his gaze lingers like I’m more than just a co--chair with too many spreadsheets.
Before I can recover, Beatrice leans in. “So when are you telling people?"
"Tell people what?" Dex asks with confusion in his voice.
"That you’re dating, of course?”
I nearly fling my fork at her. “We’re not?—”
“Sure,” Dolly says knowingly, wagging her brows again and leaning forward on her elbows like she’s narrating a soap opera. “Tell that to the way you look at each other. Harper, you’re practically broadcasting heart -eyes across the table, and Dex, you can’t stop staring back at her.”
Dex clears his throat. “We look at each other like coworkers, Dolly, nothing more.”
“With sexual tension. It’s called sexual tension,” Mrs. Henderson declares, nodding like she’s an expert.
“I’ve seen it on all those Sex and the City shows—you know, with Mr. Big.
” She punctuates the declaration with an awkward little butt wiggle right there in the middle of the diner, as if to physically demonstrate her point.
I bury my face in my hands. I just can't with these ladies anymore. “This town is impossible.”
“Embrace it,” Eleanor advises. “Better they gossip about you two than dissect my pie crust.”
“Which is divine, by the way,” Dolly says.
“Thank you, dear.” Eleanor beams, then pins me with a look that says play along or perish .
I sigh, dramatic enough to win an award, throwing my head back and flopping my hands onto the table like a stage actress who’s had it with her script.
“Fine. Dex and I are madly in love, secretly planning a life together, and this entire festival is just a ruse to spend more time together. You’ve found us out.
Happy now?” Play the plan, Harper. Do it for the annex fund.
The table goes silent for a hot minute, every eye fixed on me as my exasperated words hang in the air. I grip my fork like a weapon, cheeks burning, and then—like the crack of a starter’s pistol—the whole diner erupts.
“See!” Mrs. Henderson crows. "I knew it!"
Beatrice claps. Dolly fans herself with her clipboard. Even the short--order cook at the grill yells, “Called it!”
Dex coughs into his coffee, eyes wide as if to say, ‘Did you really just say that?’ , then dances with amusement. “Well,” he says, “glad that’s settled and out in the open.”
I kick him under the table. He doesn’t flinch. Of course he doesn’t; he’s built like a Vermont barn.
“Moving on,” I bellow. “We need volunteers for set-up. Mrs. Henderson, you’re on floral arch duty. Dolly, coordinate with the school jazz band. Beatrice, please do not set anything on fire like last year. The bank is still rebuilding its sign in the parking lot.”
“I make no promises,” she mutters.
Eleanor materializes with a legal pad. “Let’s make a list. We need: extension cords, power strips, trash corrals, recycle bins, a lost -and -found table, and a hydration station near the kids’ zone.”
“Hydration station,” I echo, writing. “Add a QR code there. People are emotionally open when they’re thirsty.”
“Same goes for caramel,” Dolly says. “Speaking of which , I secured the caramel fountain.”
I raise my hand, exasperated. “Are we sure that’s a good idea? Kids and caramel fountains sounds… sticky.”
Beatrice lifts a brow. “That’s why we made Dex order three extra cases of napkins to babysit Dolly’s caramel fountain.”
“Great,” I say. “Put the fountain near the pumpkin -carving demo so the sugar highs and knife supervision are all in one quadrant.”
“Practical,” Eleanor approves. “I raised you right.”
“You didn’t raise me,” I remind her, and she pats my cheek anyway. I'm so confused about this night.
The bell over the door jingles, and a gust of October squeezes in along with a lot of leaves from the sidewalk. A trio of high--schoolers in band hoodies file past us, arguing about whether jazz counts as jazz if there’s a tuba. It does... I think.
“Flyers,” Eleanor says, sliding a stack into my hands. “I printed my own schedule from the file you sent. Check the times.”
I scan the list, red--penning like a tyrant. “Magician noon. Jazz at three. Moonlight Bluegrass at six. Poetry open mic at four. Looks good.”
Beatrice squints. “Are we… sure about poetry?”
“Yes,” I say and leave it at that.
“Add a selfie wall,” Dolly suggests. “Chrysanthemum backdrop with ‘Keep Hollow Creek Cozy’ in twinkle lights.”
“On it,” I say, scribbling. “Where?”
“Between Mel’s and the florist.” Dolly points her pen like a conductor’s baton. “Good light. High traffic. I'm sure it will be Ingramable.”
"You mean Instagramable." Dex corrects her.
"That's what I said." She argues.
The door opens again. I don’t have to look to know it’s Vernon Blackstone; the sudden hush gives him away. Vernon's created his own vacuum.
“Good evening,” he says, smooth as shellac. “I do love how the town comes together… in diners. Tell me—has the committee confirmed its temporary power permits?”
Eleanor doesn’t smile. “Can I get you anything?”
“Just information,” he says, eyes landing on our notes. “Wouldn’t want your efforts to be wasted if the council decides to move forward.”
“Funny,” I say, tipping my head. “That’s exactly what I was about to say to you.”
He chuckles as if I’m adorable. “Ah, Harper. Ever the spirit.” His gaze flicks to Dex. “And ever the muscle.”
“Yes, I am,” Dex says, voice even but his eyes glare at him.