Page 7 of Pumpkins & Promises (Festival of Hearts #4)

Chapter Seven

Emily

I 'm sitting on Hazel Elliott's front porch, nursing my second cup of tea and trying to explain why I feel like the world's biggest fool, when she sets down her own cup and gives me that look.

"Emily, dear," Hazel says in the gentle but firm voice she probably used on three generations of third-graders, "you're being too hard on yourself."

"Am I?" I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic mug, grateful for something to hold onto. "Hazel, I heard him talking to his agent about how I'm getting something out of this relationship. About my 'tripled followers' and how smart I am to capitalize on the opportunity."

"And?"

"And that means he thinks I'm using him. Just like his ex did."

Hazel leans back in her rocking chair, studying my face. "Does it? Or does it mean he's scared?"

I look up at her, confused. "Scared of what?"

"Of caring about you. Of letting someone matter enough to hurt him." Hazel picks up her knitting. "You know, I taught that boy when he was eight years old."

"Wesley went to school here?"

"Oh no, dear. I'm talking about the boy inside Wesley. The one who learned early that people leave, that caring too much means getting hurt." She glances at me over her reading glasses. "Sometimes when we're scared, we say things we don't mean. Or we don't say things we do mean."

"But he didn't defend me, Hazel. When his agent said all those things, Wesley just let him."

"Mmm." Hazel's needles click in a steady rhythm. "And what did you do when you heard those things?"

"I confronted him?—"

"You ran, sweetheart. The moment you felt vulnerable, you ended the argument and walked away."

The truth of it hits me like cold water. "That's different."

"Is it?"

I set down my tea cup harder than necessary. "But he should have said something."

"Perhaps. But that's not really what this is about, is it?" Hazel's voice is still gentle, but there's a challenge in it. "When you heard that conversation, what was the first thing you thought?"

I open my mouth to argue, then close it. Because she's right. The first thing I thought wasn't hurt or confusion. It was confirmation of what I'd been afraid of all along. That Wesley was too good to be true, that someone like him couldn't really want someone like me.

"You both got scared," Hazel continues. "And instead of talking about it, you both did what scared people do. You protected yourselves."

"So what am I supposed to do? Pretend it didn't happen?"

"No, dear. You're supposed to decide what you really want." Hazel sets down her knitting and looks at me directly. "Do you want to be right, or do you want to be happy?"

"I want to be honest."

"Good. Then be honest about this. Do you think Wesley Thorne is the kind of man who would manipulate someone for his career?"

I consider the question seriously. Wesley, who carved a wonky leaf on his first pumpkin and called it "identity crisis art." Who listened to Uncle Frank's woodworking stories with genuine interest. Who looked at me like I was something precious, not something useful.

"No," I admit quietly. "I don't think he is."

"And do you think you're the kind of woman who would use someone for social media followers?"

"Of course not."

"Then maybe," Hazel says gently, "you're both just two people who care about each other enough to be terrified of losing it."

I sit in silence for a moment, watching the late afternoon light filter through the bare branches of Hazel's oak tree. In the distance, I can see smoke rising from the cabin's chimney.

"I told him it was over," I say finally.

"Endings," Hazel says, picking up her knitting again, "are really just beginnings in disguise. The question is, what do you want to begin?"

An hour later, I'm back home, standing in the barn with a pumpkin in my hands and a carving knife that feels heavier than it should.

Dylan finds me there as the sun is setting, surrounded by orange shavings and doubt.

"What are you doing?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe.

"Something stupid. Or brave. I haven't decided which."

He comes closer and sees what I'm carving into the pumpkin's surface.

"For Wesley?" Dylan's voice is carefully neutral.

"Maybe. If he wants it to be."

"Em..." Dylan sits down on a hay bale across from me. "Are you sure about this? Because yesterday you were pretty convinced he was using you."

"Yesterday I was scared." I smooth my finger over the carved letters, checking that they're deep enough to read clearly. "Today I'm still scared, but I'm more scared of giving up on something real because it might hurt."

"And you think it's real?"

I think about Wesley's face when he kissed me. The way he looked at my family's dinner table like he'd found something he didn't know he was missing. The hurt in his eyes when I accused him of thinking the worst of me.

"Yeah," I say. "I think it is."

Dylan nods slowly. "Then I guess you better go deliver that pumpkin."

The drive up to the cabin feels both endless and too short. By the time I pull into the gravel driveway, my heart is beating so hard I'm surprised it's not echoing off the mountains.

I walk up to the porch and set the pumpkin by the front door, where Wesley will see it when he comes out. In the glow of the porch light, the carved letters look stark and hopeful.

I'm turning to walk back to my car when the front door opens behind me.

"Emily?"

I freeze, my hand on the car door handle. Wesley is standing on the porch in jeans and a sweater, looking at the pumpkin and then at me.

"You carved this?"

I turn around slowly, my heart hammering. "Yeah."

Wesley picks up the pumpkin, running his fingers over the letters I spent an hour perfecting. "STAY."

"I know it's presumptuous," I say quickly. "And maybe too late. But I talked to Hazel, and she made me realize that we both got scared. You because you've been hurt before, and me because I was afraid someone like you couldn't really want someone like me."

Wesley sets the pumpkin down and walks to the edge of the porch. "Emily?—"

"I'm not using you for publicity," I continue, the words tumbling out. "I didn't even know my followers had tripled until your agent mentioned it. I sent you those photos because I thought they were sweet, not because I was trying to capitalize on anything."

"I know," Wesley says quietly.

"You do?"

"I've known since about five minutes after you walked away from me last night." He runs a hand through his hair. "My agent was making assumptions, and instead of correcting him, I let my own fear take over. I'm sorry, Emily. I'm so sorry."

I take a step closer to the porch. "So what does that mean?"

"It means I've spent the last twenty-four hours trying to figure out how to tell you that this stopped being fake for me. That when I'm with you, I feel like the person I want to be instead of the person I'm afraid I am."

"Wesley..."

"It means," he says, walking down the porch steps until he's standing right in front of me, "that I don't want this to be an arrangement anymore. I want it to be real. If you'll have me."

I look up at him, seeing the vulnerability in his eyes, the hope and fear mixed together. "I already gave you my answer.”

I carved it into a pumpkin before he asked.

Wesley reaches up and touches my cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear I didn't realize had fallen. "So we're doing this? For real this time?"

"For real," I whisper.

When he kisses me, it tastes like promises and second chances and all the conversations we're going to have about building something true together. When we break apart, we're both smiling.

"So," Wesley says, his forehead resting against mine, "what happens now?"

"Now," I say, taking his hand, "we figure out what comes after the pumpkin."

"Together?"

"Together."

As we sit on the porch steps, my hand in his and our pumpkin between us, I realize that Hazel was right. This isn't an ending at all.

It's the beginning of everything.