Page 4

"Fine. But if he says no again, I'm going to the town council."

"If he says no again, I'll send Luna over there. That woman has weaponized book recommendations. Nobody survives Luna Blackthorne with their stubbornness intact."

Last month Luna recommended a novel to Diesel Torres, the grumpiest mechanic in Crimson Hollow. He came back three days later asking for the sequel. The man hadn't read a book since high school. Luna has a gift.

That's the thing about this town. People look out for each other. When my plumbing burst last February, three people showed up before I could even call a contractor. When I ran short on pumpkins for the school carving event, Sage sourced extras from a supplier she knew in the valley. Crimson Hollow isn't a place. It's a conspiracy of kindness, and once you're in, they don't let you struggle alone.

I spend the afternoon making banana walnut muffins. No pumpkin. No spice. Just butter and brown sugar and walnuts I toasted myself. I also make a batch of apple cider donuts because I stress-bake and because donuts are objectively harder to refuse than muffins.

At five o'clock, I walk across the property line.

He's in his workshop. A massive structure behind the main cabin that smells like fresh-cut pine and chainsaw oil. The doors are open, and I can see him inside working on something with a hand plane, long strokes that send curls of wood shavings spiraling to the floor. His flannel sleeves are rolled to the elbows. His forearms are thick, corded, covered in fine sawdust that catches the late-afternoon light.

Bear the dog spots me first. He trots over, tail wagging, and shoves his enormous head into my hand.

"Your dog likes me," I say from the doorway.

Emmett looks up. His eyes drop to the basket, then back to my face. "Bear likes everyone. He's not a reliable judge of character."

"Banana walnut. No pumpkin. I listened."

Something flickers in those steel-gray eyes. Not softening exactly. More like noticing. Like he's recalculating me.

"The answer is still no."

"I know. I'm not here to ask again. I'm here to show you something." I pull my phone out and find the photos. "This is what the festival looked like last year. Twelve thousand visitors. A hundred and forty thousand dollars in revenue for Crimson Hollow businesses. Sage broke her single-day sales record. Luna sold out her entire autumn reading collection. Venus at Tangled Roots booked out for two months from festival referrals."

He takes the phone. Scrolls through the photos. His jaw works.

"And this is what my field looks like right now." I swipe to the flood photos.

He looks at them for a long time. Longer than the festival photos. When he hands the phone back, his face hasn't changed but something behind it has.

"One weekend," he says.

My heart kicks. "What?"

"One weekend. Friday setup through Sunday breakdown. No foot traffic through my property after dark. No hayride within fifty feet of the cabin. And no pumpkin spice anything on my land."

"Emmett Drake. Are you saying yes?"

"I'm saying one weekend. Don't make it a thing."

I’m for sure making it a thing. I set down the basket, close the distance between us, and hug him before either of us can think about it. My arms barely make it around his torso. He smells like pine shavings and something warm underneath, soap or skin or just him, and he's solid in a way that makes my whole body pay attention.

He doesn't hug me back. But he doesn't pull away either. And when I step back, his ears are red.

"You're welcome," he says. His voice is rougher than it was ten seconds ago.

"I didn't say thank you yet."

"You hugged me. That's worse."

I grin at him. Full wattage. Dimples and everything. "Get used to it, lumberjack. We've got a festival to save."

He picks up a banana walnut muffin, takes a bite, and closes his eyes for exactly one second. When he opens them, he points the muffin at me.

"These are acceptable."