Page 5 of Pumpkins & Promises (Festival of Hearts #4)

Chapter Five

Emily

I 'm walking into Novel Sips, planning to grab a quick coffee before heading to Highland Hollow, when I hear my name.

"That's Emily Holloway," someone says from a corner table. "The one dating that writer."

I slow my steps toward the counter and see two women I recognize from the farmers market. They're not trying to be quiet.

"I saw the post," the first woman continues. "Very romantic. Though I have to wonder if it's real or just part of his image rehab."

"Image rehab?" the second woman asks.

"Oh, you know. After that whole scandal with his ex-girlfriend. Smart move, really. Small-town girl, wholesome family, apple pie and all that. Perfect way to clean up his reputation."

My stomach drops like I've just stepped off a cliff.

"What can I get you?" Andrew asks from behind the counter when I reach it.

"Just coffee," I manage. "To go."

Andrew gives me a concerned look as he prepares my order. "You okay? You seem a little off."

"Fine," I lie, handing her money with hands that aren't entirely steady.

I take my coffee and practically flee the diner, the women's words echoing in my head. Image rehab. Smart move. Perfect way to clean up his reputation.

Is that what this is? What I am?

I drive to Highland Hollow on autopilot, my mind spinning. The Instagram post has over three thousand likes now, and every time I refresh, there are more comments calling me his "comeback muse" and praising how "authentic" our relationship looks.

But authentic for who? For Wesley's brand, or for us?

I find Wesley in the orchard kitchen, sitting at the same picnic table where he made his fake boyfriend proposal. He's got his laptop open and looks genuinely surprised to see me.

"Emily! How are you feeling about the post? The engagement has been incredible?—"

"Can I ask you something?" I interrupt, sitting down across from him.

"Of course." He closes his laptop, giving me his full attention.

"How much is this helping you? The whole fake relationship thing, I mean."

Wesley blinks. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, your agent wanted you to seem more human and relatable, right? And dating someone like me—small-town girl, family business, apple cider donuts—that's pretty much perfect for your image, isn't it?"

Something shifts in Wesley's expression. "Emily, where is this coming from?"

"I heard some people talking in town. About your 'reputation rehab.'" I wrap my hands around my coffee cup, trying to steady myself. "And I just... I need to know if that's what this is for you. If I'm just another PR tool."

"No." Wesley's response is immediate and firm. "No, Emily, that's not—" He stops, runs a hand through his hair. "Okay, yes, having a relationship helps my image. But you're not a tool, you're?—"

"I'm what?"

"You're..." He struggles for words, and his hesitation feels like confirmation of everything I'm afraid of. "You're amazing. You're genuine and kind and you make me laugh, and spending time with you has been the best part of being here."

"But?" I prompt, because I can hear there's a but coming.

"But I'd be lying if I said this wasn't helping my career." He looks miserable. "The post got more engagement than anyone expected. My agent is thrilled. The publishers are interested again."

"Right." I nod, trying to keep my voice level. "So I am helping your public profile."

"Emily, it's not like that?—"

"Isn't it?" I stand up, suddenly needing distance. "Wesley, I'm not naive. I know how this looks from the outside. Successful writer with a scandal takes up with simple small-town girl, proves he's changed, gets his career back on track."

"You're not simple," Wesley says, standing too. "You're?—"

"I'm convenient." The words taste bitter. "I'm the right kind of girlfriend for your comeback story."

"That's not true."

"Then why does it feel like it is?"

Wesley stares at me, and I can see him trying to find the right words. But his silence stretches too long, and that tells me everything I need to know.

"I should get back to work," I say finally.

"Emily, wait?—"

But I'm already walking away, leaving Wesley sitting alone with his laptop and his successful social media post and whatever guilt he's feeling about using the local girl to improve his public persona.

Because maybe that's all I am to him. Maybe that's all I've ever been.

I'm sitting on the farmhouse porch that evening, carving pumpkins for Thanksgiving decorations and trying not to think about this morning's conversation, when I hear footsteps on the gravel driveway.

Wesley appears around the corner, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, looking uncertain.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi." I don't look up from the pumpkin I'm working on. It’s a simple leaf pattern that's turning out more lopsided than I intended.

"Can I sit?"

I gesture to the empty chair beside me without saying anything. Wesley settles down and picks up one of the uncarved pumpkins from the pile.

"I've never actually carved a pumpkin before," he admits.

"Really?" That surprises me enough to look at him. "Never?"

"My family wasn't really into holiday traditions. Too messy, too time-consuming." He turns the pumpkin in his hands, examining it like it might hold secrets. "Do you have an extra knife?"

I hand him a carving tool and go back to my own pumpkin, carefully cutting around the outline of an oak leaf. We work in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds our knives scraping against pumpkin flesh and the distant hum of traffic on the main road.

"Emily," Wesley says finally, "about this morning?—"

"You don't have to explain," I interrupt, not wanting to revisit that conversation. "I understand what this is."

"Do you?"

I glance over at his pumpkin and have to bite back a smile. He's carved what might be the most lopsided, wonky leaf pattern I've ever seen. The edges are jagged and uneven, and it looks more like abstract art than autumn foliage.

"That's..." I search for a diplomatic word. "Unique."

Wesley follows my gaze and groans. "It's terrible, isn't it?"

"It has character."

"It looks like it's having an identity crisis."

I laugh despite myself. "Maybe that's appropriate. Identity crisis pumpkins might be the perfect decoration for this week."

Wesley grins and picks up his knife again. Below the wonky leaf, he starts carving letters. R-E-A-L-i-s-h.

"REAL-ish?" I read aloud.

"Yeah. Like our relationship." He holds up the pumpkin, admiring his handiwork. "Not quite real, but not entirely fake either."

Something about the way he says it makes my chest tight. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know." Wesley sets the pumpkin down and looks at me. "That's the problem. I came here thinking I knew exactly what this was, but now..."

"Now?"

"Now I'm sitting on your porch carving my first pumpkin and wondering when I started looking forward to seeing you every day."

My heart does that fluttering thing again. "Wesley..."

"I know," he says quickly. "I know this is supposed to be fake. But Emily, when I'm with you, it doesn't feel fake. It feels like the most real thing that's happened to me in years."

He's looking at me with such intensity that I forget to breathe.

Wesley shifts in his chair, turning to face me fully. "Tell me you don't feel it too. Tell me I'm imagining this connection."

I should tell him exactly that. I should remind him that this is temporary, that he'll go back to his real life in a few weeks and I'll still be here making apple cider donuts and organizing community events. I should protect myself.

Instead, I whisper, "You're not imagining it."

Something changes in Wesley's expression. He reaches over and touches my cheek, his thumb brushing away a smudge of pumpkin I didn't know was there.

"Emily," he says softly.

And then, somehow, we're kissing.

It's soft at first, tentative, like we're both testing whether this is real or just another part of our performance. But then Wesley's hand slides into my hair and I'm leaning into him, and suddenly there's nothing tentative about it.

The kiss is warm and sweet and charged with weeks of pretending that turns out to maybe not have been pretending at all. Wesley tastes like coffee and possibility, and when his other hand finds my waist, pulling me closer, I think I might be drowning in the best possible way.

When we finally break apart, I'm breathless and my heart is racing.

"Wow," Wesley says softly, his forehead resting against mine.

"Yeah," I whisper back. "Wow."

We stay like that for a moment, close enough that I can feel his breath on my cheek, both of us trying to process what just happened.

"So," Wesley says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, "that felt..."

"Real," I finish. "Really, really real."

"It did." His thumb traces along my cheek. "Emily, I know this started as pretend, but?—"

"But maybe it doesn't have to stay that way?" I find myself saying, surprising us both.

Wesley's smile grows wider. "Maybe it doesn't."

I lean back in my chair, picking up his REAL-ish pumpkin and turning it in my hands. "This is crazy, you know. We're supposed to be fake dating, and instead we're..."

"Actually dating?" Wesley suggests.

"I guess we are." The thought should terrify me, but instead, it makes me feel lighter than I have in weeks. "Though we should probably figure out what that means after Thanksgiving."

"We will," Wesley says, and there's a certainty in his voice that makes me believe him. "We'll figure it all out."

As we clean up the carving supplies together, working in comfortable synchronization, I can't stop stealing glances at Wesley. The way he carefully wipes down each tool, the small smile that hasn't left his face since we kissed, the way he keeps looking at me like he's seeing something new.

"I should probably head back to the cabin," he says finally, though he doesn't seem in any hurry to leave.

"Probably," I agree, but I don't move from my spot on the porch.

Wesley leans over and kisses me again, soft and brief and perfect. "Sweet dreams, Emily."

"You too."

I watch him walk to his car, and when he turns to wave goodbye, I'm still smiling. As his taillights disappear down the driveway, I touch my lips and wonder when exactly I stopped being afraid of what this might become.