Page 1 of Pumpkins & Promises (Festival of Hearts #4)

Chapter One

Emily

I stare at the mountain of orange plastic bins stacked in Highland Hollow's storage barn and wonder if it's too late to fake my own death.

The aftermath of our Harvest Festival looks like a craft store exploded.

Artificial autumn leaves cling to everything, there's pumpkin guts dried to the concrete floor, and somewhere in this chaos is my sanity.

Probably buried under the deflated bouncy castle that took three grown men and a YouTube tutorial to figure out.

"Em, where do you want the—" Dylan starts, then stops when he sees my face. My twin brother has the annoying ability to read my moods like a weather forecast, and right now I'm definitely showing storm clouds.

"Just put it anywhere," I mutter, peeling a strand of orange twinkle lights off my boots. "It's not like organization matters when we'll just have to dig through everything again next year."

Dylan sets down a box of mason jars and gives me that look. The one that says he's about to go into protective big brother mode even though he's only older by twelve minutes. "You know what you need?"

"A vacation. A lobotomy. A different family." I tick off the options on my fingers. "Oh wait, I had the vacation part figured out until?—"

"Em."

The way he says my name makes me stop. Dylan's using his serious voice, which means he's about to drop some kind of bomb that's going to make my already complicated week even more interesting.

"What did you do?" I ask, because I know that tone.

He runs a hand through his hair—the same dark brown as mine—and has the decency to look sheepish. "I may have rented out the cabin."

For a moment, I think I misheard him. The cabin.

Our family's little getaway spot up on Pine Ridge, the one place I've been fantasizing about escaping to for the past week.

The place where I was planning to hide out until Thanksgiving dinner was over and I could emerge from my post-festival cocoon without having to explain to Aunt Linda why I'm still single or listen to Cousin Beth detail her latest MLM venture.

"You rented out my cabin?" My voice comes out surprisingly calm, which should probably worry him.

"It's not your cabin, it's the family cabin, and I thought …"

"You thought what, exactly?" I set down the box of table runners I'm holding with deliberate care.

"That I wouldn't need it? That I wasn't planning to spend the next week recovering from the fact that we just hosted three thousand people who all seemed to think the phrase 'customer service' meant I should personally entertain their children while they Instagram their perfect fall family photos? "

Dylan winces. "His agent called, and the guy needed somewhere quiet to write, and the money was really good."

"Money?" I stare at him. "Dylan, we just had our best festival ever. Sienna's event planning brought in twice what we made last year. We don't need—" I stop, because something about his expression tells me this isn't about money at all.

"You felt bad for him," I realize. "Some guy called about a sad writer and you went all soft."

"He's going through a rough time, and Sienna thought it might help."

"Oh, Sienna thought." The words come out sharper than I intend, and I immediately feel guilty. Sienna is lovely. Sienna is perfect for my brother. Sienna turned our little pumpkin patch into a destination that had people driving from three states away just to see her Pinterest-worthy setup.

But right now, Sienna is also the reason Dylan is thinking about someone else's problems instead of the fact that his sister is one burned apple cider donut away from a complete breakdown.

"Em, come on. You're being?—"

"Reasonable?" I grab another box, this one full of fake spider webs that someone thought would be "whimsical" mixed in with the pumpkins.

"I'm being completely reasonable. It's not like I had plans or anything.

It's not like I specifically asked you three weeks ago if I could use the cabin to decompress before we have to smile and pretend everything's fine in front of the entire extended Holloway clan. "

Dylan's quiet for a moment, and I can practically hear him choosing his words.

This is what happens when your twin brother falls in love.

Suddenly he's all thoughtful and considerate, trying to manage everyone's feelings instead of just telling me I'm being dramatic and throwing a foam spider at my head.

"You could stay at Sienna's place," he offers. "She's spending most of her time here anyway, getting ready for?—"

"For Thanksgiving, where she gets to meet everyone and be the shiny new girlfriend who actually has her life together.

" I sigh and lean against the barn wall.

"Dylan, I love that you're happy. I love that you found someone amazing.

But do you have any idea what it's going to be like sitting at that table, listening to everyone coo over your perfect relationship while they ask me if I'm 'putting myself out there' and whether I've tried that new dating app Cousin Jessica keeps posting about? "

The silence stretches between us, filled with the distant sound of traffic on the main road and the rustle of leftover decorations in the autumn breeze.

"I'm sorry," Dylan says finally. "I should have asked."

"Yeah, you should have." I pick up the box again, suddenly exhausted. "What's done is done. How long is he staying?"

"Through Thanksgiving weekend."

"Perfect." I head toward the barn door, then pause. "What kind of writer?"

"The kind that's apparently famous enough to afford our rates but miserable enough to hide out in the mountains."

I snort. "Fantastic. A brooding artist. Just what this week needed."

As I walk away, I hear Dylan call after me. "Em? You know you can talk to me, right? About whatever's really bothering you?"

I don't turn around, because if I do, I might actually tell him.

I might explain that watching him find his person has made me realize how completely alone I am.

That I'm tired of being the one everyone depends on, the one who handles everything, the one who smiles and nods and makes sure everyone else's life runs smoothly while mine feels like it's held together with pumpkin-scented duct tape and caffeine.

Instead, I call back, "I'm fine, Dylan. Just tired."

It's not a lie, exactly. I am tired.

I'm just not sure a week in the mountains would have fixed it anyway.

The drive up to Pine Ridge takes exactly twelve minutes, which is just enough time for my irritation to simmer into full-blown righteous indignation.

By the time I pull into the gravel driveway of our family's cabin, I've mentally composed at least three different speeches about boundaries and common courtesy that I'll probably never actually give Dylan.

The cabin looks the same as always. The log walls weathered to a soft gray, green metal roof, and a wraparound porch that's seen more family arguments than a therapist's office.

What's different is the sleek black sedan parked where my beat-up Honda should be, and the soft glow of lights in the windows.

My lights. In my peaceful sanctuary.

I grab the spare key from under the third porch plank and let myself in, calling out, "Don't mind me, just grabbing some things I left here."

The response I get is not what I'm expecting.

"Unless you're the grocery delivery, you're trespassing."

The voice is deep, dry, and comes from the direction of the kitchen.

I follow it and find myself face-to-face with a man who looks like he stepped out of a moody book cover.

Tall, dark hair that's probably supposed to look artfully disheveled but just looks like he's been running his hands through it, and the kind of sharp jawline that suggests he's never gotten his hands dirty or worked a day of manual labor in his life.

He's standing at the kitchen island with what looks like a manuscript spread out in front of him, a laptop open, and a coffee mug that says "World's Okayest Writer" in faded letters.

His gray sweater has the kind of soft, expensive look that screams "I shop somewhere that doesn't sell things in plastic bags," and he's looking at me like I'm the one who doesn't belong here.

"Trespassing?" I set my keys down with more force than necessary. "This is my family's cabin."

"Your family's cabin that I'm renting for the week." He doesn't move from his spot, just watches me with dark eyes that seem to catalog every detail. "Which makes you..."

"Emily Holloway." I cross my arms. "And you must be the sad writer my brother took pity on."

Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or irritation. "Wesley. And I prefer 'creatively challenged' to 'sad.'"

"Good to know." I move toward the bedroom, trying to ignore the way he's somehow made the entire cabin smell like expensive coffee and something woodsy that definitely didn't come from our usual Pine-Sol cleaning routine. "I'll just grab my things and get out of your way."

"What things?"

I pause at the bedroom doorway. "Excuse me?"

"What things are you grabbing?" He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms in a mirror of my own posture.

"Because if this is some kind of setup where the cute local girl conveniently forgot something important and needs to interrupt the grumpy writer's solitude, I should warn you that I've read that book. Several times. I probably wrote it."

Heat rushes to my cheeks. "Setup? You think I—" I take a breath, reminding myself that murdering paying customers is bad for business.

"Mr. Thorne, I can assure you that the last thing I want right now is to interact with anyone, let alone interrupt some brooding artist's creative process.

I left my good sweaters here after our last family gathering, and since I'll need them for the upcoming week of family obligations, I'm retrieving them. That's it."

"The good sweaters," he repeats, and there's something almost amused in his voice now.

"Yes, the good sweaters. The ones that make me look like I have my life together instead of like I've been wrestling pumpkins for the past month." I disappear into the bedroom before he can respond, grabbing the cardigan and wool pullover I'd left hanging in the closet.

When I come back out, Wesley is still standing in the same spot, but now he's holding a steaming mug.

"Coffee?" he offers, and I'm surprised by the gesture.

"No, thank you. I need to get back." I head for the door, then pause with my hand on the knob. "Just so you know, the hot water heater is temperamental. If you want a shower longer than five minutes, you have to jiggle the handle on the water tank in the basement."

"Noted." He takes a sip of his coffee. "And just so you know, I didn't ask your brother to take pity on me. My agent arranged this."

Something in his tone makes me look back at him. He's tired, I realize. Not just sleepy tired, but the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that I recognize in my own mirror these days.

"Well," I say, softening slightly, "I hope you find whatever you're looking for up here."

"Doubtful," he mutters, turning back to his manuscript. "But thanks."

I'm halfway to my car when I hear him call out from the porch.

"Emily?"

I turn, keys already in my hand.

"The water heater thing," he says. "Thanks for the tip."

I'm not sure why such a simple acknowledgment makes my stomach do a weird little flip.

"Don't mention it," I call back.

I catch what might be a smile before I get in my car and drive away, muttering to myself about brooding writers and disrupted plans and how this holiday just keeps getting better and better.