Chapter 9
Harper
F estival day smells like sugar and smoke, the good kind, the kind that seeps into your sweater and lives there until spring.
Main Street thrums like a jukebox. Kids with painted noses sprint past my knees.
A dad carries three turkey legs and the haunted look of a man who lost a bet.
The gazebo glows under its net of orange lights.
Lanterns bob above the walkways like patient moons.
Exhaustion has moved into my bones with a security deposit.
Exhilaration pays the rent. I float on caffeine, adrenaline, and the sight of neighbors spending money on something that is not a condo brochure.
Every jar on every table pings with coins.
QR codes light up phones like tiny fireworks.
The square looks like the internet’s idea of autumn, and I want to frame it.
Dex moves through the crowd at my elbow, a steady wall in flannel.
He steers me around stroller wheels and extension cords, fingers pressing at the small of my back like a private compass.
The touch should feel like theater. It doesn’t.
Each brush sends a line of heat up my spine and sits there glowing.
“Hydration,” he says, sliding a water bottle into my palm.
“Hero,” I say, chugging. “What is our fire risk, sir, on a scale of one to Beatrice with a pumpkin spice candle?”
“Three,” he says. “But I confiscated her matches.”
“You’re a saint.”
“I prefer outlaw,” he corrects. “I stole them from a retired librarian’s booth. I will never know peace again.” He gives me a mock-shocked look, and I laugh.
We walk the loop together. The kids’ tent bursts with crayons and chaos.
The maple-cotton-candy guy spins sugar clouds the size of planets.
A grandmother in a witch hat hustles me for two extra raffle tickets with a wink that could start a small war.
I buy four. The high school band warms up with a jazzy version of Monster Mash that offends no one and confuses many.
Every time someone waves a camera, Dex laces our fingers on instinct. Every time our arms brush, the town leans in. The act has turned into muscle memory. My brain pretends to protest, but my body doesn’t.
“You need food,” Dex says.
“I had a donut hole,” I say.
“You inhaled two powdered ones an hour ago,” he says. “That doesn’t count.”
He returns with a paper boat of hot cider donuts and a cup of chili from Mel’s. We share them like a couple who plans to go to IKEA on Sunday. I take a bite of the donut. He watches my mouth with a look that belongs in a dimmer room.
“Stop,” I say, voice a little thin.
“Stopping,” he says, not stopping.
Cole appears with Mr. Darcy riding in his cat-stroller-thing like he has diplomatic immunity. The cat wears a tiny ribbon on his collar and looks pleased with his station. Cole tips two fingers at me and grins at Dex like he holds a secret he intends to sell at auction.
“How’s the romance economy?” he asks. “Bullish?”
“Go charm the pie table,” I say.
“Already did,” he says, smug. “They adopted me. Mrs. Henderson says my cheekbones can move product.”
Mr. Darcy butts Cole’s hand. The purr rattles. My cat, a known misanthrope, has given his little tuxedo heart to a stranger while keeping a running list of Dex’s sins. I don’t know what karmic bargain triggered this, but I would like to renegotiate the agreement.
“Hi, Your Grace,” Dex says to the cat with the patience of a saint as he bows toward him. Mr. Darcy blinks, then turns his back with the grandeur of a French opera star walking off stage. Cole laughs until he wheezes.
“Stay safe,” Cole says, still grinning. “I hear the kissing booth is pop up only.”
“There is no kissing booth,” I tell him, then to Dex, “there will never be a kissing booth.”
“Copy,” Dex says, eyes warm. “Shame.”
“Focus,” I say, louder than I mean, and pretend to study the schedule.
The bluegrass band sets up as paper bats sway from the gazebo rafters. My shoulders drop a fraction. Then I see Vernon.
He stands near the council members in a navy suit that screams executive brunch.
He laughs with his mouth, not his eyes. He shakes hands as if he’s running for political office.
One councilman, Todd with the boat, leans in far too much.
Another, Joan with the tidy garden, keeps her face polite and unreadable.
I would like to hire Joan to coach me in inscrutability.
My stomach tightens. I try to remind my body that we have receipts, literally, that the jars are heavy and the card reader is tired. I still feel the wobble. If this goes sideways, my bookstore becomes a memory. The thought puts ice in my blood.
Dex notices. He always notices. His hand returns to my spine. “Breathe,” he says, low, like a grounding cord.
“Working on it,” I say.
We stall beside the gazebo while the band tunes. The air carries wood-smoke and sugar and a hint of November on the horizon. The string lights blur a little. Either my eyes are wet or I am standing too close to the apple fritter fryer. Possibly both.
“Harper,” a voice says behind me, smooth as shellac.
I turn—and Vernon is already at the gazebo steps, two council members in tow. The band’s sound tech has left the mic hot from tuning; Vernon leans into it like it’s a friend.
“Lovely event,” he says, voice carrying. “Truly impressive. But tell me—and the council—isn’t this just a PR stunt? A carefully staged… romance?”
The knot of council members turns. Conversations hiccup around us; a dozen phones tilt our way. Heat crawls up my neck.
“Authenticity matters,” Vernon adds, palms up, benevolent as a warning label. “If this is theater, the council deserves to know.”
Dex’s hand finds mine—steady, not stagey.
I take the microphone. “Great question. Here are some facts.” I start.
“As of 6:20 p.m. $18,406 in donations to the library annex, $6,120 via QR, the rest cash, and checks. Vendors report sell-through up 30–70% over last fall. We’ve logged zero safety incidents, passed fire and temporary-power checks, and added 68 new monthly donors at the info booth. ”
I gesture to the jars, the QR signs, the square that’s humming because people choose to be here. “That’s not theater. That’s community.”
Councilwoman Trammel’s pen pauses mid-note. “Those are useful numbers,” she says, cool but audible. Councilman Wu nods, already calculating.
A tuxedo blur streaks past my ankles. Mr. Darcy has escaped his stroller like a furry jailbreak artist. He pads directly across Vernon’s polished shoe, plants one dainty paw on the man’s iPad sitting on the gazebo ledge, and—without breaking eye contact—nudges it off the rail. It thunks to the grass.
Laughter pops like corn. Someone near the council says, “Even the cat’s voting.”
Mr. Darcy sits, tail curled, with an expression of next witness .
I look at Vernon, then at the council, then at the square that smells like sugar and smoke and home.
“We started this with optics,” I say, not hiding.
“Because we wanted time to show you this. To show you what we can do together.” I find Dex’s eyes.
“But I’m done pretending the rest of it is strategy.
I choose Dexter Rowen—not as optics, as truth—and I choose this town the same way. ”
A low, spontaneous cheer rolls across the first two rows; Trammel’s mouth almost curves. Vernon’s smile thins like a paper cut.
I feel heat crawling up my neck. For half a second I want to yell, ‘I am not faking this, not the way you think’. Then I cover my face and run. My pulse scrapes.
Dex squeezes my hand. The world steadies by a degree.
“It’s real enough for me,” he says, clear and even, not loud, but the words carry. They land between us like a weight that knocks over all the flimsy parts of me. He turns to me, eyes steady. “It is real enough,” he says again, and that second time is only for me. A promise and a problem.
My chest goes soft in the center. I do not look away.
Vernon’s smile holds. His eyes say, ‘We will see’. He steps back with a two-finger salute that makes me want to set something on fire. He turns toward Todd with the boat and resumes laughter, polished and hollow.
I let my breath out in a shaky reel. “I think I’m going to pass out,” I say.
Dex tips my chin with one knuckle, bringing me back into my body. “No, you’re not,” he says. “You’re going to eat a pretzel.”
“That is a weird medical plan,” I say, but my voice returns to normal. He grins, the tightness easing, and the square slides back into focus. My hands, traitors, want his shirt.
He fetches the pretzel. He tears it down the middle and salts my palm with a piece. We lean against the gazebo rail like a secret club. The band finishes a warmup run and drops into a tune that sounds like a train with good news. People sway. Lanterns breathe.
“I handled that badly,” I say after a bite.
“You handled him,” Dex says. “That is already a miracle.”
“What if he tells the council we’re faking it,” I whisper. “What if he stands up during public comments and reads our love story like a deposition? What if Todd nods along, making it look substantial?”
“Then he does,” Dex says. “And we still win because the town knows what it feels like to stand in a place that matters. That is not fake. He cannot bulldoze that with a speech.” He tilts his head. “As for us, I can handle being called names. I have been called worse.”
I stare at the paper wrapper. “I don’t want it to hurt you.”
His laugh curls low. “Harper, I’m a former soldier who now organizes extension cords for fun. I can handle gossip.”
I smile despite the knot in my chest. “You make it sound less romantic when you say it like that.”