Page 19 of Bewitched by the Fruit Bat King (The Bewitching Hour #3)

What Breaks Can Mend

Willow

T he morning of the Fall Festival dawns crisp and clear, the kind of perfect autumn day that makes Haven's Cross look like it's been plucked straight from a greeting card.

I've been up since five, carefully selecting and cutting my best blooms, arranging them in color-coordinated buckets lined with preservative solution.

My little shop van is packed to bursting with flowers, decorations, and the portable display racks I've spent weeks refinishing.

"Just one more trip," I mutter to myself, hoisting another wagon of arrangements.

It's barely eight in the morning, but the town square is already humming with activity.

Vendors setting up booths, festival workers hanging banners across Main Street, and the occasional early-bird tourist wandering through with coffee cups clutched in gloved hands.

The square itself has been transformed overnight.

White tents line the perimeter, strings of fairy lights crisscross overhead (though they won't be lit until evening), and the central gazebo has been draped in autumn garlands.

Pumpkins in every conceivable size create artistic piles at each corner of the square, many of them due to be carved in this afternoon's contest.

I maneuver my wagon past a family of witches setting up a cauldron corn stand, the rich scent of buttery popcorn already filling the air.

"Morning, Willow!" Mrs. Chambers calls from her jam booth, her table already lined with jars glinting like jewels in the morning light. "Beautiful day for the festival!"

"Perfect day," I agree, stopping to admire her display. "Are those kudzu blossom preserves? I didn't know anyone made those anymore."

"Special recipe." She winks, tapping the side of a purple-tinged jar. "And they pair wonderfully with your night-blooming jasmine honey, by the way."

"I'll have to try that combination," I say, though my honey production has been spotty at best since the hive incident last month. I should really consider buying some from a more professional source...

Which is when I spot it - a massive booth taking up twice the space of the others, draped in elegant cream canvas with "Haven's Harvest" embroidered on the awning in deep green.

Kane's farm booth. Crystal jars of multicolored honey line shelves constructed from reclaimed barn wood, while baskets overflow with heirloom apples, pumpkins, and gourds.

I recognize some of the produce from our pumpkin patch visit, but the honey display is entirely new - and impressive.

The booth is staffed by a pair of women I vaguely recognize from town, but no sign of Kane himself. My eyes scan the surrounding area before I can stop myself, the mate bond humming curiously in my chest as if joining the search.

What am I doing? Of course he's not here. He's the CEO of a massive corporation, not a farmer who mans festival booths. The pumpkin patch was probably just a fluke, a convenient moment when he happened to be inspecting his property.

Still, disappointment settles like a stone in my stomach. Which is ridiculous. Completely absurd. We shared one kiss in a garden, not vows of eternal devotion.

"That honey would pair beautifully with your flower teas," a familiar voice says, and I turn to find Luna standing beside me, her silver hair braided with tiny star-shaped crystals woven throughout.

"Are you reading my mind now?" I ask, dragging my eyes away from Kane's booth.

"No need." She taps her temple. "Your face does all the broadcasting necessary. Looking for someone?"

"Just checking out the competition," I lie, grabbing my wagon handle more firmly. "Come on, let's get to our booth. Is Bethany already there?"

"Since dawn." Luna falls into step beside me, her gauzy skirts swishing. "She's been setting up her 'Match Made in Heaven' consultation area with a vigor that suggests either divine inspiration or too much caffeine."

"So... both," I laugh, knowing Bethany's typical festival preparation approach.

Our booth area is at the eastern end of the square, three adjacent spaces we've rented as a group but decorated to suit our individual businesses.

Bethany's section is already a riot of pinks and reds, with a heart-shaped consultation table and a sign offering "Supernatural Matches for Supernatural Hearts.

" Luna's crystal display glimmers next to it, arranged by properties rather than colors, with a small table for readings and a rack of tiny vials labeled "Intentions" and "Manifestations. "

My space waits empty, just a blank canvas with my "Floramancy" banner draped across the top. I've got work to do.

"You're late!" Bethany bounces over, her curls already escaping from what must have been a once-neat bun.

Her cheeks are flushed with excitement, and she's wearing what appears to be a slightly toned-down version of last year's cupid costume - still pink, still flouncy, but mercifully without the wings that kept knocking over displays.

"I've already had three people ask when you'll be open for business.

Those bride-to-be bouquet consultations are a hot commodity. "

"I've got two more wagons in the van," I explain, setting down the first load. "This is just getting started."

"Need help?" Luna asks, already arranging her crystals to capture the morning light.

"I've got it. You two finish setting up. I want to be ready when they officially open at ten."

I make my way back to the van but find myself taking a route that passes by Kane's booth again.

Still no sign of him. Not that I'm looking.

The stall is impressive, though - the kind of professional setup that speaks of serious investment.

A young woman with a Haven's Harvest apron is arranging jars of purple honey in the sunlight, making them glow like amethysts.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" she says, noticing my lingering gaze. "First harvest of the season. Mr. Drake is very particular about the process."

"I'm sure he is," I murmur, wondering if Kane personally inspects each jar or if he leaves that to his many employees. "Your display is lovely."

"Thank you! We've been planning it for months. Mr. Drake himself came by last night to make sure everything was perfect."

Of course he did. Control freak vampire CEO would never leave anything to chance. I ignore the little flutter in my chest at the thought of him having come here after our meet up yesterday.

"Will he be stopping by today?" I ask, trying to sound merely curious rather than desperately invested in the answer.

"Oh, I couldn't say," she answers with the careful tone of someone who knows exactly but has been instructed not to tell. "His schedule is always so busy. But he is entering the pumpkin carving contest this afternoon, so..."

I thank her and continue toward my van, feeling strangely conflicted.

Part of me hopes he does show up, if only to see his face when my pumpkin carving demolishes whatever he brings.

The other part - the sensible part - knows that each encounter with Kane Drake complicates my life in ways I'm not prepared to handle.

The next hour passes in a blur of activity.

I set up my display shelves, arrange buckets of fresh flowers by color and type, hang wreaths along the back of the booth, and set out my consultation book for bride-to-be appointments.

By the time I'm unpacking my last wagon, sweat beading at my temples despite the cool morning, my section looks like a proper flower shop transplanted into the festival grounds.

"Gorgeous," Luna declares, stepping back to examine our completed trio of booths. "We look like we belong in a magazine spread."

"Speak for yourself," I laugh, pushing a strand of hair from my face. "I'm a sweaty mess."

"A photogenic sweaty mess," Bethany insists, already organizing her heart-shaped consultation cards. "And just in time! They're opening the gates."

Sure enough, the festival staff are removing the barriers at the square's entrances, and people begin streaming in - families with excited children, couples holding hands, groups of teenagers with pumpkin spice everything clutched in their hands. The Fall Festival has officially begun.

"I need to get another load of sunflower bouquets," I tell my friends after the first rush dies down. "I hadn't expected to sell so many this early."

"The festival director bought ten for the judges' stands before the festival even opened," Bethany explains. "And Mrs. Norwood bought five for her garden club luncheon tomorrow."

"I'll be back in twenty. Watch my booth," I say, slipping out from behind my booth.

The festival is properly alive now, the pathways between booths crowded with people enjoying the perfect fall day.

Children with painted faces dart between adults, laughter rises above the general hum of conversation, and the scent of kettle corn and apple cider mingles with the crispness of autumn air.

I'm navigating through the crowd, mentally cataloging which flowers to bring back, when I spot something unusual at the edge of the square - a booth that wasn't there during setup.

It's smaller than the others, draped in inky black fabric that seems to absorb rather than reflect light.

A simple silver sign reads "Morana - Fortunes & Fates. "

My steps slow involuntarily. Morana rarely makes public appearances, preferring to see clients by appointment only in her shop on the edge of town.

The high priestess is something of a legend in Haven's Cross - ancient and powerful, advisor to the supernatural council, and notoriously selective about who she'll help.

That she's deigned to join the festival is. .. unexpected.

As I pass, debating whether to stop, a voice like velvet calls my name: "Willow Thorne. A moment of your time."