Page 3 of Pumpkins & Promises (Festival of Hearts #4)

Chapter Three

Emily

" S o," I say, wrapping my hands around my coffee mug at Novel Sips, "we need ground rules."

Wesley sits across from me in the cozy bookstore café, looking slightly amused by my notepad. "You made a list."

"I always make lists. It's how I function." I flip to a fresh page. "First, our story. We started seeing each other this week. We met when I went up to the cabin to get my sweaters, we had that whole awkward thing, but then we kept running into each other and realized there was something there."

"How recently are we talking?" Wesley asks, pulling out his phone to make notes.

"Monday, maybe? We can say we've been talking and spending time together, but it's brand new enough that I wasn't sure if I should bring you to dinner yet."

"That works. Very believable timeline." He looks up from his phone. "What made us decide to give it a shot after that rocky first meeting?"

"You brought me coffee as an apology, I gave you the water heater tip. We realized we'd both been ridiculous and that there was something worth exploring."

"And how long have we been seeing each other?"

"This week. We can say it's been... nice."

"Nice?" He raises an eyebrow. "That's not exactly a ringing endorsement of our fictional romance."

"What would you prefer? Epic, all-consuming passion?"

"Point taken." Wesley leans back in his chair. "What about physical contact? Are we holding hands, sitting close, or keeping things platonic?"

Heat rushes to my cheeks. "I hadn't thought about that part."

"Well, we should probably figure it out before we're sitting at your family's dinner table. They'll notice if we act like strangers."

He's right, of course. But the idea of Wesley holding my hand or putting his arm around me makes my stomach do weird flips that definitely shouldn't be happening in a fake relationship.

"Hand holding is fine," I say, trying to sound businesslike. "Maybe sitting close. And if we absolutely have to sell the story, a kiss on the cheek. But only if it's really necessary."

"Got it. Cheek kisses only in emergencies." There's amusement in his voice. "What about the why? Why did we click?"

I look up from my notepad. "What do you mean?"

"Your family's going to want to know what we see in each other. What made you decide to date the grumpy writer, and what made me fall for the baker and pumpkin grower?"

The word 'fall' makes something flutter in my chest. "You're different from guys I usually date. Quieter, more thoughtful. You actually listen when I talk."

"And you?"

"Me what?"

"What do I see in you?"

I stare at him, suddenly self-conscious. "I don't know. You tell me."

Wesley's quiet for a moment, studying my face.

"You're genuine. No pretense, no games. You say what you mean, and you care about the people around you without making a big show of it.

You're the kind of person who brings peace offerings to grumpy strangers and gives helpful tips about temperamental water heaters.

Plus, you make incredible apple cider donuts. "

My throat feels tight. "That's very specific for a fake relationship."

"The best lies are built on truth," he says simply.

Before I can figure out how to respond to that, my phone buzzes with a text from Mom: Dinner's ready in twenty minutes. Are you bringing your friend?

"Showtime," I say, gathering my things. "Ready to meet the family?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

We walk to my car and drive the few miles out to the farmhouse together. I try to ignore how natural it feels when Wesley takes my hand as we approach the front door.

"Remember," I whisper, "this week, we're taking it slow, and you think I'm genuine and thoughtful and make great donuts."

"And you think I'm a good listener who's different from your usual type," he whispers back.

"Right." I take a deep breath and open the front door, calling out, "We're here!"

Mom appears from the kitchen wearing her best hostess smile and the apron Dylan got her last Mother's Day.

"Emily! Perfect timing, I was just—" She stops mid-sentence when she sees Wesley, and her smile shifts into something brighter and more curious. "Oh! And you must be..."

"Mom, this is Wesley. Wesley, my mom, Margaret Holloway."

"Mrs. Holloway, it's a pleasure to meet you." Wesley extends his hand with easy confidence. "Thank you for including me in your family dinner."

"Oh, nonsense, any friend of Emily's is welcome." Mom shakes his hand and gives me a look that clearly says 'we'll be talking about this later.' "I'm so glad Emily decided to bring you."

"We haven't been seeing each other very long," I say, which is technically true.

"Well, I'm delighted you decided to bring him." Mom beams at Wesley. "I hope you're hungry. I made my famous pot roast."

"It smells incredible," Wesley says, and I have to admit he sounds genuinely enthusiastic.

We follow Mom into the kitchen, where Dylan is leaning against the counter with a glass of tea in his hand and Sienna is tossing a salad at the island. They both look up when we enter, and I can practically see Dylan's protective instincts kick into high gear.

"Dylan, Sienna, this is Wesley Thorne. Wesley, my brother Dylan and his girlfriend Sienna."

"The writer," Dylan says, and there's something in his tone that suggests he's connecting dots.

"Among other things," Wesley replies easily. "You must be the twin Emily mentioned. She said you run Highland Hollow together."

"That's right." Dylan's handshake looks a little more firm than necessary. "How are you finding the cabin?"

"It's perfect. Exactly what I needed." Wesley glances at me. "Though I have to admit, the best part about staying there has been getting to know Emily."

"And now you're dating my sister." Dylan's voice is carefully neutral.

"Now I'm dating your sister," Wesley agrees, and his hand finds mine again. "Lucky coincidence."

I catch the slight emphasis and have to suppress a smile. Wesley's definitely playing up the smitten boyfriend angle, and it's working. Mom is practically glowing, and even Sienna looks charmed.

"How did you two meet?" Sienna asks, setting down her salad tongs.

"At the cabin," I say, at the same time Wesley says, "Sweater retrieval."

We look at each other and laugh.

"I went up to get some things I'd left there," I explain. "Found Wesley already moved in. We had a bit of a territorial dispute."

"I called her a trespasser," Wesley adds with a grin. "I thought she was staging some kind of meet-cute."

"But then we kept running into each other in town," I continue, "and we realized we'd both been a little ridiculous that first day."

"How romantic," Mom sighs.

"What convinced you to ask her out?" Dylan asks, still in full interrogation mode.

Wesley glances at me, and there's something warm in his expression. "She brought me muffins when she barely knew me, just because she thought I might be having a rough time. That kind of thoughtfulness is rare."

"And what about you?" Sienna asks me. "What made you say yes?"

I look at Wesley, remembering our conversation about ground rules and the way he'd described me as genuine. "He actually listens when I talk. And he doesn't try to fix everything. He just... hears me."

Something flickers across Wesley's face, and for a moment, I forget we're acting.

Dinner conversation flows easier than I expected. Wesley asks thoughtful questions about Highland Hollow, compliments Mom's cooking with just the right amount of detail, and somehow manages to get Dylan talking about his favorite festival memories instead of grilling him about his intentions.

"You know," Mom says as she serves dessert, "it's so nice to see Emily with someone who appreciates her. She works so hard, sometimes I worry she forgets to take care of herself."

"I've noticed that," Wesley says, squeezing my hand. "She's always thinking about everyone else first."

"That's our Emily," Dylan says, and his tone has softened considerably. "The responsible twin."

"Someone has to be," I protest, but Wesley just smiles.

"It's one of the things I love about her," he says, and the word 'love' makes my stomach flip even though I know he doesn't mean it.

After dinner, we help clear the table, and I catch Wesley actually laughing at one of Dylan's stories about a customer who tried to use a chainsaw to carve a jack-o'-lantern. By the time we say our goodbyes, even Dylan seems genuinely pleased.

"Nice meeting you," he tells Wesley at the door, shaking his hand with actual warmth this time.

"Likewise. Thanks for including me."

"You'll have to come back soon," Mom says, which earns her a warning look from me.

"I'd like that," Wesley replies, and something in his voice makes me think he means it.

As we walk back toward town, our hands naturally finding each other again, I feel lighter than I have in weeks.

"So," Wesley says, "how did I do?"

"Better than expected," I admit. "You actually seemed to enjoy yourself."

"I did." He sounds surprised. "Your family's nice. Different from what I'm used to."

"Different how?"

"Warmer. More..." He searches for the word. "Genuine, I guess. No performance, no agenda. Just people who clearly care about each other."

There's something wistful in his voice that makes me study his face in the streetlight.

"What's your family like?"

"Complicated," he says simply. "My parents are still married, but they barely speak to each other. My sister lives in California and calls twice a year out of obligation. Family dinners are more like strategic negotiations than actual conversations."

"That sounds lonely."

"Yeah," he says quietly. "It is."

We walk in comfortable silence for a moment, and I realize that for all his smooth charm and easy confidence, Wesley Thorne might be just as lonely as I am.

"Wesley?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for tonight. Really."

He stops walking and turns to face me, and something in his expression makes my heart skip.

"Thank you for letting me be part of it. It was exactly what I needed."

"Want to walk through the orchard before I drive you back?" I ask as we reach my car. "It's beautiful at night, and I could use some air after all that family interrogation."

"Sure," Wesley says. "Lead the way."

We follow the path that winds between the apple trees, their bare branches creating intricate patterns against the star-filled sky. The air is crisp and clean, carrying the scent of earth and fallen leaves.

"Your family's really great," Wesley says, breaking the comfortable silence. "I can see why you were nervous about disappointing them."

"They mean well," I say, kicking at a cluster of leaves.

"But sometimes I feel like I'm drowning in their expectations.

Dylan gets to be the serious one, the one everyone respects for his business sense.

I'm the cheerful twin, the one who keeps everyone happy and makes sure no one's feelings get hurt. "

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is." The admission surprises me with its honesty. "Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I just stopped."

Wesley stops walking and turns to face me. "And do what?"

"I don't know. Take a pottery class. Learn to surf. Date a mysterious writer I barely know." I laugh, but it comes out shakier than I intended. "Hypothetically speaking."

"Hypothetically," he agrees, and there's something in his voice that makes my pulse quicken.

We resume walking, and I find myself asking, "What about you? Any progress on the writing front?"

Wesley sighs. "Not really. I keep starting things and deleting them. It's like I've forgotten how to trust my own voice."

"What happened? With your last book, I mean."

"It was too personal," he says quietly. "I wrote about things I thought I understood, but I was wrong. The critics saw right through it, and they weren't kind about it."

"So now you're afraid to be personal again?"

"Something like that." He glances at me. "How do you do it? Put yourself out there, be vulnerable, and not worry about getting hurt?"

I almost laugh. "Who says I don't worry about getting hurt? I'm terrified most of the time. But the alternative is never really living, and that seems worse."

We've reached the end of the orchard path, where an old wooden bench sits overlooking the valley below. The lights of Juniper Falls twinkle in the distance like fallen stars.

"Can I ask you something?" Wesley says as we sit down.

"Shoot."

"Earlier tonight, when I almost said I loved how responsible you are... this is going to sound weird, but for a second there, I forgot we were acting."

My heart does that fluttering thing again. "It was pretty convincing," I manage.

"Yeah," he says, looking out over the valley. "I mean, your family made it easy. They're so warm, so genuine. It felt natural to be part of it."

"You did great," I say. "Even Dylan was impressed, and that's saying something."

We sit in silence for a moment, both of us carefully not examining why this felt so easy.

"This is going to be interesting," I finally say.

"What is?"

"Thanksgiving. If tonight was just a practice round, I can't imagine what the full family circus is going to be like."

Wesley laughs. "How bad could it be?"

"Famous last words," I say, but I'm smiling too.

But neither of us moves to leave, and when the autumn breeze picks up, I don't protest when Wesley shifts closer on the bench. We sit there under the stars, both of us pretending this is just two friends getting comfortable with their arrangement.

"We should probably head back," I say eventually.

"Probably," Wesley agrees, but neither of us stands up right away.