Page 6 of Pumpkins & Promises (Festival of Hearts #4)

Chapter Six

Wesley

I wake up to my phone buzzing insistently on the nightstand, pulling me out of dreams filled with apple-cinnamon scents and soft kisses on moonlit porches.

I reach for the phone, expecting Oscar's name, but instead I see a text from Emily sent about twenty minutes ago.

Good morning! Sienna sent me some great photos from the cornhole tournament. Thought you might want to use one for social media? We look so happy!

Attached are four photos of us from the Friendsgiving event. In the best one, I'm looking at her instead of the camera while she laughs at something I apparently just said. We do look happy. We look like a couple who's genuinely enjoying each other's company.

Before I can respond, my phone starts ringing. Oscar.

"This better be important," I mumble into the phone.

"Wesley, you beautiful genius," Oscar's voice is practically vibrating with excitement. "Have you seen the numbers?"

"What numbers?" I'm still looking at Emily's photos, remembering the warmth of that afternoon.

"The engagement on your Instagram post. It's gone viral, Wesley. Completely viral. We're talking fifty thousand likes, hundreds of comments, and the story's been picked up by three entertainment outlets already."

I sit up in bed, suddenly more awake. "What story?"

"'Wesley Thorne's Small-Town Romance: A Fresh Chapter for the Controversial Author.' People are eating this up. They love the whole redemption narrative. City writer finds love and authenticity in rural America. It's exactly the image rehabilitation we needed."

"Oscar—"

"The publishers are thrilled, Wesley. They're saying this could be the hook for your comeback. Real-life inspiration for your next novel. They want to fast-track your contract renewal." Oscar pauses. "This relationship angle is pure gold for your career."

My stomach drops.

"Listen, I know you said this was real, but from a business perspective? It's working perfectly. Small-town girl, family business, very authentic. And she clearly gets it. I bet she understands how valuable this exposure could be for her little farm operation too."

The words hit me like cold water. I look back at Emily's text, her enthusiastic suggestion about using the photos for social media.

"Between you and me?" Oscar continues. "This is exactly what you needed. She gets national exposure, you get the wholesome rehabilitation story. Everyone wins."

We look so happy! Was she thinking about our happiness, or about how happy we looked for the camera?

"Wesley? You there?"

"Yeah," I manage. "I'm here."

"So what's the plan? Can we get more content? Maybe some photos from this Thanksgiving dinner? The family angle will really sell the whole 'Wesley learns the value of community' narrative."

"I have to go," I say abruptly.

"Wesley, wait?—"

I hang up and stare at Emily's photos, Oscar's words echoing in my head. She clearly understands how this works. Very strategic. Smart girl.

The kiss last night. Emily's smile when she said maybe our relationship didn't have to stay fake. The way she looked at me like I was something precious instead of something broken.

But what if Oscar is right? What if Emily is smarter than I gave her credit for? She runs a business, after all. She knows the value of publicity. And she was the one who suggested taking additional photos for my social media just this morning.

The thought makes me sick, but I can't shake it. Everyone else in my life has had an agenda. Why would Emily be different?

My phone buzzes with another text from Emily: Also making apple cinnamon pancakes this morning if you want to grab breakfast before the family chaos begins!

I stare at the message for a long time, trying to read between the lines. Is this genuine Emily wanting to spend time with me? Or is this Emily maintaining the relationship that's suddenly making her internet-famous and bringing attention to Highland Hollow?

I type and delete three different responses before settling on: Can't this morning. Need to work on some writing. Rain check?

Her response comes quickly: Of course! I understand. See you later for dinner?

Even through text, I can hear the disappointment she's trying to hide. And that should make me feel terrible, but instead it makes me more suspicious. If she really cared about me and not the attention, wouldn't she be more upset?

I spend the morning trying to write, but all I can think about are Oscar's words and Emily's smile and the way she felt in my arms last night. By the time I need to get ready for Thanksgiving dinner, I've convinced myself that I need to be more careful. More guarded.

The last time I let someone get close, I ended up as content for entertainment outlets.

I won't make that mistake again.

When I arrive at the Holloway farmhouse, Emily greets me at the door wearing a burgundy dress that brings out the gold in her eyes. She looks beautiful and genuinely happy to see me, and for a moment, my resolve wavers.

"Hi," she says, reaching up to straighten my tie. "I missed you this morning."

"Sorry about that. I got caught up in work."

"Everything okay? You seem..."

"I'm fine," I say, taking a step back. "Just tired."

Emily studies my face for a moment, and I can see her trying to figure out what's changed since last night. But before she can ask, Dylan appears behind her.

"Wesley! Come on in. Mom's been cooking since dawn, and Dad's already started his annual argument with the football announcers."

Thanksgiving dinner at the Holloway house is exactly what I expected. It’s warm, chaotic, and overwhelming in the best possible way. Twenty-seven family members crowd around tables that have been pushed together and extended with folding chairs, and somehow everyone fits.

I'm seated between Emily and her cousin Beth, who's been trying to sell me essential oils for the past twenty minutes, when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

Oscar again.

"Excuse me," I murmur to Emily, stepping away from the table. "I need to take this."

I slip into the quiet hallway, where the noise from the dining room becomes a pleasant hum.

"Wesley, perfect timing," Oscar says without preamble. "I just got off the phone with your publisher. They want to discuss a multi-book deal. This Emily thing has them convinced you've found your authentic voice again."

"Oscar, I'm at dinner?—"

"This will just take a second. They're talking about a whole series. Small-town romance, family values, the works. They think your real-life relationship could inspire an entire brand refresh."

I lean against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "Can we talk about this later? I’ll call you in the morning."

"The timing is perfect, Wesley. Strike while the iron's hot. Maybe get some photos from tonight? The whole family gathering, very Norman Rockwell. Your followers are eating up this wholesome narrative."

"I said I'd call you back."

"Just think about it. This could set you up for years. And Emily's getting something out of it too. I checked Highland Hollow's social media, and their followers have tripled since your post went viral."

My blood goes cold. "What?"

"Smart girl. She knows how to capitalize on an opportunity. Very savvy business move."

"She's not—" I start, then stop. Is she?

"Wesley? You there?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Look, I'm not judging. It's smart. She helps your image, you help her platform. Just make sure you're both on the same page about expectations."

I'm about to respond when I turn and see Emily standing in the doorway, her face pale.

"How long have you been standing there?" I ask, ending the call.

"Long enough." Her voice is quiet, controlled. "Your agent thinks I'm playing some kind of game?"

"Emily, it's not?—"

"He said I planned this. That I understand 'the game.'" She steps closer, and I can see the hurt and anger warring in her eyes. "Is that what you think too?"

"No, of course not?—"

"Then why didn't you correct him?"

I open my mouth, but no words come. Because for a moment there, listening to Oscar talk about Emily's tripled followers and strategic photo timing, I had wondered. And Emily can see it on my face.

"Wesley," she breathes. "You do think that. You think I'm using you."

"Emily—"

"All those comments about me being your 'comeback muse' and helping your image. You think I orchestrated this somehow." Her laugh is bitter. "You think I'm just like your ex."

"That's not?—"

"Isn't it?" Emily's voice rises slightly, then she glances toward the dining room and lowers it again. "You've been weird all day, Wesley. Distant. And now I know why. You think last night was part of my master plan to get famous."

"You have to admit, the timing?—"

"The timing of what? Of me falling for you? Of me stupidly thinking that kiss meant something real?"

The pain in her voice cuts through me like a knife. "Emily, please?—"

"No." She shakes her head, taking a step back. "I heard what he said about me 'getting something out of this.' About my followers tripling. As if I even knew that was happening."

"I didn't tell him?—"

"You didn't have to! You've been thinking it yourself." Tears are starting to gather in her eyes, but her voice stays steady. "You know what's funny? I was actually starting to believe this was real. I thought maybe we'd found something worth fighting for."

"We did. We have."

"No, Wesley. We have a fake relationship that accidentally got some real feelings mixed in. But you've made it very clear which part you think is authentic."

She turns to go, and I reach for her arm. "Emily, wait?—"

She pulls away from my touch. "I need to get back to my family. And you need to figure out whether you want a girlfriend or a marketing strategy."

"That's not fair?—"

"Fair?" Emily turns back to face me, and now the tears are visible. "What's not fair is me falling for someone who thinks so little of me that he'd believe I'd manipulate my way into his life for social media followers."

"I don't think that?—"

"Yes, you do. And maybe that says more about you than it does about me.

" She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.

"I'm going to go back in there and pretend everything's fine, because it's Thanksgiving and my family doesn't deserve to have their dinner ruined.

But after tonight, this arrangement is over. "

"Emily—"

But she's already walking away, leaving me standing alone in the hallway with my phone and my doubts and the sinking realization that I've just destroyed the best thing that's happened to me in years.

When I return to the table five minutes later, Emily is laughing at something her uncle said, playing the part of the happy girlfriend perfectly. But she doesn't look at me for the rest of the meal, and when dessert is served, she makes sure to sit as far away from me as possible.

I've spent my entire adult life protecting myself from people who might use me.

It never occurred to me that the person I should have been protecting Emily from was myself.