Page 2 of Pumpkins & Promises (Festival of Hearts #4)

Chapter Two

Wesley

I stare at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen and wonder if it's possible to develop a phobia of blank pages.

The cabin is exactly what my agent promised. It’s quiet, isolated, and full of the kind of rustic charm that's supposed to inspire creativity. Pine walls, stone fireplace, windows that look out over mountains that probably have names I should know. It's the perfect writer's retreat.

Too bad I can't write.

My phone buzzes with a text from Oscar: How's the hermit life treating you? Any brilliant insights about redemption and second chances yet?

I type back: Day one. Still the same disaster you sent up here.

Give it time. You just need to get out of your own head.

Easy for him to say. Oscar isn't the one whose last book got eviscerated by every major publication and whose ex-girlfriend sold their breakup story to a gossip channel for enough money to fund her yoga teacher certification.

He's not the one whose Wikipedia page now includes a section called "Personal Life and Controversies" that makes me sound like a cross between a pretentious jerk and a commitment-phobic cliché.

Which, to be fair, might not be entirely inaccurate.

I close my phone and walk to the kitchen, where the coffee maker gurgles like it's judging my life choices. The encounter with Emily Holloway keeps replaying in my mind, which is ridiculous because it lasted all of ten minutes and consisted mostly of verbal sparring.

But there was something about her. The way she stood her ground, the dry humor, the flash of genuine exhaustion I caught when she thought I wasn't looking.

She didn't treat me like Wesley Thorne, Moderately Famous Author with a Google-able Dating History.

She treated me like an inconvenience who happened to be occupying her space.

It was oddly refreshing.

The problem is that every time I try to write about trust and second chances, all I can think about is how Vanessa looked at me the night everything fell apart. Not hurt or angry, but disappointed. Like she'd expected better from me and was genuinely surprised that I'd let her down.

"You know what your problem is, Wesley?" she'd said, standing in the doorway of our apartment with her suitcase in hand. "You're so afraid of being vulnerable that you've convinced yourself everyone else is just playing a role. Including me."

I'd wanted to argue with her, to point out all the ways she'd been playing a role.

The gallery openings where she'd introduce me as "my boyfriend, the novelist" like I was an accessory, the way she'd started posting photos of our quiet moments for her Instagram stories.

But somewhere deep down, I'd known she was right.

And that was before she sold our story to Manhattan Gossip with the headline "Inside My Relationship with the Writer Who Couldn't Commit to Anything, Including Love."

I'm saved from spiraling further by a knock at the door. When I open it, Emily is standing on the porch with a basket in her hands and an expression that suggests she'd rather be anywhere else.

"Peace offering," she says, holding up the basket. "Or bribery. I haven't decided which."

Inside are what look like homemade muffins, a jar of something that might be jam, and a thermos that smells like the kind of coffee that doesn't come from a grocery store.

"What's the occasion?" I ask.

"Guilt." She shifts the basket to her other arm. "I was kind of rude yesterday, and my mom raised me better than that. You're a guest on our property, and we don't usually greet guests by arguing with them about trespassing."

"I called you a trespasser first," I point out.

"True. But you're paying for the privilege of being here, and I was being territorial about my hiding spot." She hesitates. "Also, Dylan may have mentioned that you're going through a rough time, and I figured you probably don't need locals making it worse."

There's something careful about the way she says it, like she's not sure how much she's supposed to know or acknowledge.

It's a refreshing change from the people who either pretend they've never heard of my recent disasters or bring them up immediately like we're old friends bonding over shared trauma.

"Well," I say, accepting the basket, "thank you. For the record, you weren't that rude. I've definitely encountered worse."

"High praise." Her mouth quirks up at one corner. "The muffins are apple cinnamon, the jam is from our orchard, and the coffee is from Novel Sips in town. Fair warning. It's strong enough to wake the dead."

"Perfect. I was starting to think the cabin coffee maker was plotting against me."

"It probably is. That thing's older than I am." She turns to go, then pauses. "Dylan mentioned you're a writer. Anything I might have read?"

The question every writer dreads and craves in equal measure. "Probably not. Literary fiction. Not exactly beach reading."

"Try me."

I study her face, looking for signs of recognition when I say, "Wesley Thorne."

Her eyebrows go up slightly. "Huh. I read The Weight of Hours a couple years ago. Depressing, but beautiful."

"That's actually a perfect review."

"Well, don't let it go to your head." But she's smiling now, and it transforms her entire face. "I'll let you get back to whatever moody masterpiece you're working on."

As she walks away, I realize I'm still standing in the doorway holding a basket of muffins and watching Emily Holloway's retreating figure like some kind of hermit who's forgotten how to interact with humans.

Which, to be fair, might not be entirely inaccurate either.

Two days later, I'm no closer to writing anything that doesn't sound like pretentious garbage, but I have discovered that Highland Hollow makes excellent coffee.

I'm sitting at a picnic table outside what Emily called the "orchard kitchen"—a converted barn where they apparently prep food for events—trying to convince myself that changing my writing location will somehow unlock my creative genius.

So far, the only thing it's unlocked is the realization that I've been staring at the same paragraph for forty-five minutes.

The door to the barn opens, and Emily emerges with her arms full of what looks like event supplies. She's wearing jeans and a flannel shirt that's probably older than some of my books, and her dark hair is pulled back in a messy bun that suggests she's been working hard at something.

"Well, if it isn't the hermit writer," she says when she spots me. "Cabin fever drive you down the mountain?"

"Something like that." I close my laptop before she can see the pathetic word count on my screen. "Hope you don't mind me borrowing your Wi-Fi. Mine keeps cutting out."

"Rural internet. It's part of the authentic mountain experience." She sets down her supplies and wipes her hands on a dish towel. "How's the writing going?"

"Terribly, thanks for asking."

She laughs, and the sound is surprisingly warm. "At least you're honest about it. Most creative types I know would give me some speech about the artistic process and finding inspiration."

"Oh, I've tried that approach. Turns out my artistic process mostly involves staring at blank pages and questioning my life choices."

"Sounds familiar." She sits down across from me at the picnic table, and I catch a whiff of cinnamon and apples that seems to follow her everywhere. "Mind if I take a break? I've been organizing supplies for three hours, and I'm starting to see tablecloths in my sleep."

"Planning another festival?"

"Thanksgiving prep. My family goes big for holidays." She rolls her eyes, but there's affection in it. "Twenty-seven people descending on the farmhouse in four days, and somehow I'm in charge of making sure everyone has somewhere to sit and something to eat."

"Twenty-seven people?" I try to imagine that many family members in one place and feel mildly nauseated. "That's a lot."

"Tell me about it. And of course, everyone's going to have opinions about everything.

Aunt Linda will complain that the stuffing isn't the same as Grandma's, even though I'm using Grandma's exact recipe.

Cousin Beth will try to sell her latest MLM products to anyone who'll listen.

And Uncle Frank will corner some poor soul for an hour-long dissertation on why the government is ruining everything. "

"Sounds delightful."

"Oh, it gets better. Since Dylan's bringing Sienna, everyone's going to spend the entire meal asking me when I'm going to find myself a nice boy and settle down.

" She puts on a sugary sweet voice. "'Emily, honey, you're thirty now.

Don't you think it's time? Your biological clock is ticking, dear. '"

The bitterness in her voice catches me off guard. "I take it you're not currently seeing anyone?"

"Nope. And apparently that makes me the family project." She picks at the edge of the picnic table. "Last year, Cousin Jessica spent the entire dinner showing me dating app profiles on her phone. 'This one's a lawyer, Emily. This one has a boat.' Like I'm shopping for a used car."

"Could be worse. They could be showing you videos about your dating disasters on gossip channels."

She looks up sharply. "Is that a thing that actually happened to you?"

"Last month, actually. My sister thought I should know what people were saying." I lean back against the picnic table. "Nothing says sibling support like forwarding you links to some stranger discussing your commitment issues."

"Oof. Okay, you win the terrible family holiday stories contest." She's quiet for a moment, then says, "Can I ask what happened? With the gossip thing?"

Most people who ask that question are fishing for details they can repeat later. But Emily's expression is genuinely curious, not predatory.

"Ex-girlfriend sold our breakup story when my career hit a rough patch. Turns out our 'intimate moments' and 'private conversations' were worth more to her than whatever we actually had."

"That's awful."

"Yeah, well. Live and learn." I shrug like it doesn't still sting. "The worst part wasn't even the invasion of privacy. It was realizing that someone I trusted saw our relationship as content to be monetized."

Emily nods slowly. "That's the thing about trust, isn't it? Once someone breaks it, you start wondering if you ever really knew them at all."

There's something in her voice that suggests she's speaking from experience, but before I can ask, she shakes her head and forces a smile.

"Anyway, enough about my dysfunctional family dynamics. At least you get to spend Thanksgiving in peaceful solitude, working on your mysterious literary masterpiece."

"Actually," I hear myself say, "I could always pose as your boyfriend for the day. Get your family off your back about the whole dating thing."

The words are out before I've really thought them through, and Emily stares at me like I've suggested we rob a bank together.

"What?"

"I'm serious. You need a fake boyfriend to deflect family pressure, I need..." I pause, trying to figure out what I need. "Well, I need something to do that isn't staring at a computer screen feeling sorry for myself. It's a win-win."

Emily laughs, but it's the kind of laugh that suggests she thinks I might be having some kind of breakdown. "You want to pretend to be my boyfriend at a family Thanksgiving dinner with twenty-seven people you've never met?"

"Why not? I can be charming when the situation calls for it. I'll compliment your stuffing, nod politely at your uncle's political rants, and answer all their invasive questions about our relationship with just the right amount of detail to satisfy their curiosity without being inappropriate."

"And what do you get out of this arrangement?"

Good question. What do I get out of it besides a distraction from my writing problems and an excuse to spend more time with Emily Holloway?

"Research," I say finally. "I'm supposed to be writing about human connection and family dynamics."

She's still staring at me like I've lost my mind, but now there's something else in her expression. Something that looks almost like temptation.

"You're serious about this."

"Dead serious. One day, completely fake, no strings attached. I'll even bring wine."

Emily is quiet for a long moment, and I can practically see her weighing the pros and cons. Finally, she shakes her head.

"Thanks for the offer. Let me think about it. This could get complicated."