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

Chapter Four

Wesley

I 'm standing in Highland Hollow's main field, watching Emily organize what she calls a "Friendsgiving picnic" with the efficiency of a military general, and trying to remember the last time I voluntarily attended a community event.

The answer is never. I don't do community events.

But here I am, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt that Emily insisted made me look "approachably outdoorsy," holding a plate of her apple cider donuts and wondering how I got roped into this.

"You're brooding," Emily says, appearing at my elbow with two cups of hot cider. "It's very obvious brooding. People are going to think I'm dating a vampire."

"I don't brood."

"You're literally doing it right now. There's actual brooding happening on your face." She hands me a cup, her fingers brushing mine in a way that sends an unexpected jolt through me. "Relax. It's just a few games and some food. Think of it as research for your book."

"Right. Research." I take a sip of cider and watch as families spread blankets on the grass and kids run between the apple trees. "What exactly am I researching? The social dynamics of rural recreational activities?"

"Community bonding. The way people connect over shared experiences." Emily waves at someone across the field. "You said you wanted to write about human connection, right? This is it in action."

Before I can respond, Dylan appears with a cornhole board under each arm, looking far too pleased with himself.

"Perfect timing," he says, dropping the boards with a thud. "We need teams for the tournament. You two are up first."

"Tournament?" I look at Emily, who's suddenly avoiding eye contact. "You didn't mention a tournament."

"It's just for fun," she says quickly. "Very casual. No big deal."

"First prize is a fifty-dollar gift certificate to The Copper Kettle," Dylan adds, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "Plus bragging rights until Christmas."

I've never played cornhole in my life. I'm not even entirely sure what cornhole is, beyond the vague understanding that it involves throwing things at holes.

"I should probably sit this one out," I say. "I'm not really the competitive games type."

"Come on," Emily says, and there's something in her voice that makes me look at her more closely. "We could be good at this. I can tell."

The thing is, she looks genuinely excited. Not about the game, necessarily, but about us playing together. About being a team.

And despite every instinct telling me this is a terrible idea, I find myself nodding.

"Okay. But when we lose spectacularly, I'm blaming you."

"When we win," Emily corrects, "you're buying me dinner with our prize money."

The first few throws are disasters. I'm either overshooting the board entirely or landing bags so short they don't even reach the platform. Emily, meanwhile, has clearly played this before, landing bag after bag with casual precision.

"Stop thinking so much," she says after I send another bag sailing into the apple trees. "It's not brain surgery. Just aim and throw."

"Just aim and throw," I mutter, hefting another bag. "Right. Simple."

But something about Emily's confidence is contagious. Or maybe it's the way she celebrates every small success—mine and hers—with genuine enthusiasm. By our third game, I'm actually starting to understand the mechanics. By our fourth, we're developing something that resembles strategy.

"Left side," Emily murmurs as I line up my shot. "Their bags are clustered on the right."

I throw, and the bag slides perfectly into the hole.

"Yes!" Emily practically bounces, then catches herself looking around to see who noticed. "I mean, nice shot."

But she's grinning, and her excitement is so genuine that I can't help grinning back.

"We're actually good at this," I say, surprised.

"We're good together," she corrects, then immediately blushes. "At cornhole. Good at cornhole together."

Right. Cornhole.

As we advance through the bracket, I start to notice things.

The way Emily automatically hands me bags in the order I prefer to throw them.

How she celebrates my shots with the same enthusiasm as her own.

The way we've fallen into an easy rhythm of communication, barely needing words to coordinate our strategy.

"You two are like a well-oiled machine," comments Sarah from The Copper Kettle as we beat her and her husband in the semifinals. "How long did you say you've been together?"

"Not long," Emily says quickly. "We're still figuring each other out."

But we advance to the finals against Dylan and Sienna, and something about the way Dylan watches us makes me think we might be figuring each other out a little too well.

"Interesting," he says as we line up for the championship round.

"What's interesting?" Emily asks, practicing her throwing motion.

"You two. The way you move together, anticipate each other's plays." Dylan hefts a bag, testing its weight. "Most new couples don't have that kind of rhythm yet."

I can feel Emily tense beside me, but before either of us can respond, Sienna elbows Dylan in the ribs.

"Leave them alone," she says. "Just because you were hopeless at everything when we started dating doesn't mean everyone else is."

"I wasn't hopeless," Dylan protests.

"You tried to impress me by juggling pumpkins," Sienna reminds him. "It did not go well."

The game is close. Dylan and Sienna are clearly experienced partners, but Emily and I have found our groove. We're reading each other's throws, setting up shots, covering each other's mistakes with an ease that surprises me.

"Final round," Emily says, bouncing slightly on her toes. "No pressure."

"None at all," I agree, though my heart is beating faster than it should for a casual game.

I throw first, landing a bag perfectly in the hole. Emily follows with another hole shot. Dylan gets one on the board but not in the hole. Sienna matches Emily's throw.

It comes down to our final bags. Dylan throws and gets another hole shot, tying the score. Emily lines up her throw, takes a breath, and sends her bag sailing in a perfect arc that lands directly in the hole.

"Yes!" she shouts, jumping up and throwing her arms around me before she seems to realize what she's doing.

For a moment, I'm holding Emily Holloway against my chest, feeling her heart racing with excitement, breathing in the scent of apples and cinnamon that seems to follow her everywhere.

Her face is tilted up toward mine, her eyes bright with triumph, and it would be the most natural thing in the world to kiss her.

Instead, I set her gently back on her feet and try to ignore the way my hands want to linger at her waist.

"Nice throw," I manage.

"Thanks." Her cheeks are pink, and she's looking anywhere but at me. "Good teamwork."

Dylan and Sienna congratulate us with good grace, and Sarah presents us with our gift certificate with appropriate ceremony. But I can see Dylan watching us with that thoughtful expression again, and I wonder if our "good teamwork" was a little too convincing.

As the crowd disperses and families pack up their blankets, Emily and I find ourselves sitting on hay bales, sharing the last of the cider and trying to pretend that moment after our victory was just excitement about winning.

"That was fun," Emily says, swinging her legs like a kid.

"It was," I admit, and I'm surprised to realize I mean it. "I can't remember the last time I played a game just for the sake of playing."

"What do you usually do for fun?"

The question catches me off guard. "I read. Write. Go to gallery openings and book launches." I pause. "Actually, those aren't really fun. They're more like work obligations."

"That sounds lonely."

"I prefer the term 'focused,'" I say, but even as I say it, I realize how hollow it sounds.

Emily studies my face in the late afternoon light. "When was the last time you did something just because it made you happy?"

I try to think of an answer and come up empty. Everything in my life for the past few years has been about career advancement, networking, maintaining my image. Even my relationship has felt more like strategic partnership than genuine connection.

"I don't know," I admit finally.

"Well," Emily says, hopping down from her hay bale, "consider today a start."

The next morning, I'm sitting at the cabin's kitchen table with my laptop open and my phone face-down beside my coffee mug, trying not to think about the text I received from Oscar twenty minutes ago.

Publishers want to see some social media engagement. Personal stuff. Show them you're human and relatable. Post something today.

I've been staring at the message ever since, my coffee growing cold while I try to figure out how to be "human and relatable" on demand.

My Instagram account has exactly twelve posts, all of them book-related.

Professional author photos, quotes from reviews, the occasional bookstore appearance. Nothing personal. Nothing human.

Nothing that would convince anyone I'm worth a second chance.

My phone buzzes with another text, this one from Emily: Thanks for yesterday. I haven't had that much fun at a community event in ages.

Before I can overthink it, I type back: Want to grab coffee at Novel Sips? I have a favor to ask.

Her response comes quickly: Everything okay?

Yes. PR stuff. I'll explain in person.

An hour later, I'm sitting across from Emily in the same corner booth where we planned our fake relationship rules, watching her wrap her hands around her coffee mug and trying to figure out how to ask for help without sounding completely pathetic.

"So," she says, "what's the favor?"

I pull out my phone and show her Oscar's text. "My agent thinks I need to show my human side on social media. Apparently, my current feed makes me look like a robot who only exists to promote books."

"Ah," Emily says, understanding immediately. "You need to seem more relatable."

"Exactly. And I was wondering..." I hesitate. "Would you be okay if I shared some photos from yesterday? The cornhole tournament, maybe one of us together? You know, 'enjoying small-town life with someone special' kind of thing."

Emily considers this. "That makes sense. Plus, it'll help sell our story."

"Would you be okay with that?" I ask. "Being in a post that goes to my followers?"

"Of course," she says easily. "It's part of the arrangement, right?"

"We don't have to," I say quickly. "I can figure out something else."

But Emily's already shaking her head. "No, it's fine. Actually, it's smart. We should take a new one too, just to have options."

We walk outside, where the morning light is filtering through the maple trees that line Main Street. Emily positions us near the Novel Sips storefront, where hand-painted autumn leaves decorate the windows.

"Okay," she says, "how do you want to do this?"

I hold up my phone, trying to find an angle that looks natural rather than staged. "Maybe just close together? Like we're sharing something funny?"

Emily steps closer, and I can smell that apple-cinnamon scent that seems to follow her everywhere. She tilts her head toward mine as I hold up the phone, and for the camera, she smiles like someone who's genuinely happy to be here.

"Perfect," I say, taking several shots. In the best one, Emily's laughing at something I apparently just said, and I'm looking at her instead of the camera, like I'm more interested in her reaction than the photo itself.

Which, I realize as I look at the image, might not have been entirely acting.

"Good?" Emily asks, looking over my shoulder at the phone screen.

"Yes. Really good." I show her the photo. "What do you think?"

"I think we look like people who actually like each other," she says, and there's something in her voice I can't quite identify.

I post the photo with a simple caption: Sometimes the best research happens over coffee and good company. #SmallTownLife #WriterLife #GoodCompany

Within minutes, the likes and comments start rolling in.

Who's the girl? She's gorgeous!

About time you posted something personal!

New muse alert! She looks like a keeper!

Love seeing you happy, Wesley. Small town life suits you.

"Wow," Emily says, reading over my shoulder. "People are really excited about this."

"Yeah," I say, watching the engagement numbers climb. "Oscar is going to be thrilled."

But as more comments appear, I start to notice a pattern that makes my stomach tighten.

Finally, a fresh chapter in the Wesley Thorne story!

Loving this comeback narrative. Rural girl saves city writer?

She's so different from Vanessa. Much more down-to-earth. Perfect for your image rehab.

Your comeback muse! She's going to be great for your brand.

Emily's gone very quiet beside me, and when I look at her, her expression has changed completely.

"Emily?"

"I need to go," she says, standing abruptly. "I just remembered I promised Mom I'd help with something."

"Are you okay? Did I say something wrong?"

"No, it's fine. Everything's fine." But she's already gathering her purse, avoiding eye contact. "The photo turned out great. I'm sure your agent will be pleased."