Chapter 7
Harper
B y morning, Hollow Creek looks like a festival exploded overnight.
Hay bales line the gazebo, streamers crisscross Main Street, and pumpkins have multiplied like rabbits.
Shop windows glow with painted ghosts and grinning scarecrows, the air smells like cider and caramel, and even the lampposts are wearing little orange bows.
It’s as if the town decided subtlety was optional and went straight to a Hallmark movie that overdosed on pumpkin spice.
I should be thrilled. I am thrilled. But mostly I’m pacing behind the counter at The Wandering Page, wearing a groove in the old hardwood, replaying Vernon’s smug smile in my head like it’s a cursed GIF.
Every time I blink, I see that polished smirk, like he already has the council wrapped around his perfectly pressed suit sleeve.
The more I think about it, the more my chest tightens until even Mr. Darcy flicks an ear like he’s telling me to stop before I chew through the countertop.
And as if on cue, the bell of gossip tolls—Mrs. Henderson texts me, yes, she texts, that a bloc of council members is planning to attend tomorrow ‘specifically to evaluate safety and compliance.’ The words hum in my head like a neon sign: evaluate safety . Vernon’s fingerprints are all over it.
“Relax,” I mutter to myself. “The festival will be fine. The council will wait. Vernon will trip over a decorative gourd and break his ego in half.” I snicker under my breath. “One can only hope.”
Mr. Darcy, perched on the dictionary throne, yawns wide enough to show all his teeth. His expression says unlikely .
The bell jingles and in strides Dex, all flannel and calm, like the human embodiment of a lumberjack calendar come to life.
God, he's hot. He sets a paper bag and a coffee on the counter with the easy confidence that makes my pulse stumble.
“You need to eat,” he says, steady and matter-of-fact.
“So I brought you breakfast—no excuses.”
“You’re a saint.” Gratitude softens my voice as I wrap both hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into me.
For a moment I just breathe in the steam, ridiculously thankful he always seems to know when I need saving from myself.
I grab the coffee first, because a girl has her priorities, then peek at the bag with a smile. “What’s in the bag?”
Dex smirks, a little cocky and a little too pleased with himself, and it sends a ridiculous flutter through my chest. God help me, I actually like that look on him. “A cinnamon roll the size of your face.”
“Perfect. I need sugar. Lots of it. Preferably delivered via cinnamon roll, hot coffee, and maybe even an IV drip.”
He quirks an eyebrow. "Why?”
“For dealing with Vernon. He feeds on despair, so I have to keep my blood sugar and caffeine levels stable—otherwise he’ll smell weakness and I’ll end up sacrificed to the pumpkin gods before the festival even starts.”
Dex chuckles, leaning one hip against the counter, and the sound does something alarming to my insides. His eyes roam my face a second too long, and suddenly I need to look anywhere else. I choose the pastry bag as if it’s fascinating literature.
“Festival check-in?” he asks.
“Vendors confirmed, signage up, Dolly still scheming about setting up a raffle table.”
His brows shoot up. “A raffle table?”
“Apparently she thinks it’ll raise twice as much money if she makes it 'flirty'.
Her words, not mine," I roll my eyes. "I told her absolutely not, but she’s convinced the town will line up for it.” Dolly never takes no for an answer—she treats resistance like seasoning and just sprinkles on more determination.
He groans. “This town’s going to be the death of me.”
Before I can answer, the door bursts open and Cole barrels in, sunshine and leather jacket. Mr. Darcy leaps down, abandons me without hesitation, and twines around his legs like they’ve been best friends forever.
“Morning, lovebirds!” Cole crows.
“We’re not—” I start.
Dex talks over me. “Don’t start.”
Cole just smirks, scooping up Mr. Darcy like the cat’s his long-lost son. “Too late. The town is buzzing. Everyone’s betting on whether you two kiss again before the festival opening ceremony.”
I nearly choke on a cinnamon roll. “They’re betting ?”
Cole nods. “Mrs. Henderson’s running a pool. Fifty bucks says you cave by sundown.” He waggles his brows like he’s already spent the winnings, clearly enjoying every ounce of Dex’s irritation and my horror.
Dex presses two fingers to his temple like he’s getting a migraine. “Unbelievable.”
“Oh, very believable. This is Hollow Creek after all,” Cole says with a laugh, winking at me like he’s in on some private joke. “Just give the people what they want, dude.”
“Out,” Dex orders, pointing at the door, his tone flat but his jaw tight with annoyance, as if he’s barely holding back a laugh and a growl at the same time.
“Fine, fine,” Cole says with a dramatic sigh, but not before ruffling Dex’s head like an annoying kid brother.
He deposits a purring Mr. Darcy back on the counter, winks, and strolls out as if he owns the place.
The cat immediately turns his back on Dex, tail flicking with disdain, as though siding with Cole in their little power struggle.
“This town definitely hates me,” Dex mutters, shooting me a wide-eyed look of exaggerated misery before glaring at the cat. “See? Even the cat hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” I say, softening, though a laugh bubbles under my words because the entire scene is absurd. “He’s just… complicated.” I can’t help the fondness in my tone, and I hope Dex doesn’t notice how much I’m secretly charmed by his grumbling.
Dex huffs, trying for irritation, but there’s a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth that makes my chest tighten with an entirely inconvenient rush of warmth.
By afternoon, the square is buzzing with volunteers. I’m pinning schedules to lampposts when Eleanor, Dex's mom, sidles up, clipboard in hand, eyes gleaming with a general’s mischief.
“You two need to hold hands more,” she declares.
“Excuse me?”
“Optics,” Eleanor says firmly, her voice carrying the weight of someone used to running both kitchens and campaigns.
“A united front is powerful. And romantic. Everyone loves a love story—especially one framed by twinkle lights. The council members are still people, Harper, and people melt for romance.”
“Mrs. Rowan?—”
She ignores me, brushing off my protest with a knowing smile. “Tonight, when you two walk into the square, just… act natural. Natural like two people head-over-heels in love, sneaking kisses behind pumpkin stacks and making the whole town sigh into their cider.”
I sputter, but before I can object further, Dex appears with a bale of hay slung over one shoulder like some kind of Viking delivery service, Dex Ex, if you will. His flannel stretches across broad shoulders while half the volunteers stop to admire the view.
“Yes,” Eleanor says approvingly, her eyes twinkling like she’s orchestrating a chess move.
“That’s the teamwork that convinces people.
Keep it up and no one will question a thing.
” She smiles at her son. "Remember what I said. Everyone loves a love story." Then, in one fluid motion, she snaps her clipboard open. “New orders,” she announces to Dolly, Beatrice, and three volunteers within earshot. “Hydration station moves closer to the kids’ zone. The lost-and-found table shifts to the information booth—visibility matters. And every QR donation sign gets laminated and tied down. If they want to evaluate safety, we’ll give them OSHA in twinkle lights.”
Dolly salutes with a roll of duct tape. Beatrice mutters about needing more zip ties. And just like that, Eleanor has turned rumors into redeployment.
Dex frowns. “What’s happening right now?”
“Festival logistics,” his mother singsongs, then winks at me and floats away, leaving a trail of chaos.
I press my clipboard to my chest, sighing like a heroine trapped in a melodrama. “This town is completely unhinged—and we're somehow starring in their favorite soap opera.”
Dex adjusts the hay bale, smirking. “She’s not wrong, though.”
I blink. “About what?”
“Everyone does love a love story.” His eyes meet mine, warm and steady, and for one dizzy moment I forget how to breathe. My pulse skips, heat climbs into my cheeks, and I have to look away before the whole square sees exactly how undone one look from Dex can make me.
By evening, lanterns glow over Main Street, casting everything in soft amber light.
The town council gathers for a walk-through of the festival grounds.
Vernon lurks near the gazebo, shaking hands with two council members, laughing like he owns the place instead of someone who only appeared a few months ago. My stomach knots.
Dex must notice the way my shoulders tense. Without a word, he slides his hand into mine, fingers strong and sure, the gesture both protective and possessive. Electricity arcs up my arm, stealing my breath and making it impossible to pretend this is only an act.
“It's okay. Just play along,” he murmurs, voice low.
I nod, heart hammering. We weave through the crowd hand-in-hand, people parting around us with knowing smiles. Whispers follow— look at them, finally, about time —and my cheeks burn, but I don’t let go. I can't because I don't want to.
At the gazebo, Vernon turns, eyebrows arched.
His smile falters for the briefest second when he sees our joined hands, and the flicker of surprise in his eyes is almost as satisfying as the warmth of Dex’s palm in mine.
Almost. Then his face smooths into something worse: satisfaction.
He murmurs to Councilman Riggs, just loud enough for me to catch, “We’ll see if they pass inspection. ”
Dex takes it one step further. He dips his head, and before I can even gasp, his mouth brushes mine—stealing the air from my lungs. Heat zips straight through me, leaving my knees a little weak, right there in front of everyone.
It’s just optics, Harper, I chant silently, trying to convince myself while my lips are still tingling. Only optics. Nothing more.
Gasps ripple. Applause breaks out like fireworks. Someone wolf-whistles, and my brain short-circuits under the weight of it all.
When Dex finally pulls back, his eyes are darker, intense, like he’s holding back a storm. “That should keep them talking,” he murmurs, his breath still warm against my lips.
I can barely manage words. “You think?”
Vernon’s smile curdles. The council members look intrigued. And me? I’m left standing in the lantern-light, hand in Dex’s, heart racing so fast I’m sure the whole town can hear it.
He pulls me behind the florist’s delivery van to avoid Mrs. Henderson’s camera, and he kisses me again—two counts longer than we should—and when we resurface, we’re both smiling like we’ve gotten away with something.
“You know at least one person saw us,” I say. “Maybe even half the town.”
“Good,” he says cocky as hell.
The council will vote next week after the festival.
We've bought ourselves time. But as I walk away beside Dex, his hand still warm around mine, I know time might be the most dangerous thing of all. Because the longer we fake this… the less fake it feels. And that kiss? It may have been for show, but the way my pulse is still stumbling tells me I’m in more trouble than I realized.
Especially now that the council isn’t just watching us —they’re grading us and Vernon’s the one holding the red pen.
If pretending feels this real, what happens when the pretending stops?