Page 1 of The Pumpkin Spice Proposal
CHAPTER1
Lily
LateSeptember
Welcome to Autumn Grove, Michigan—population 8,542. A postcard-perfect lakeside town where fall always arrives early, the festivals run on cider and gossip, and every story on Happily Ever After Lane finds its forever…
I survived most of Sunday dinner on a steady diet of mashed potatoes and tactical evasion. At my parents’ house, Sunday dinner wasn’t just a meal; it was a team sport where the objective was to pin down my love life and perform a full, loving, and very public autopsy on it.
“Did you hear, Lily? Father Michael said Gary Novak’s boy is back in town,” my mother, Margaret, announced over the clatter of silverware. She speared a green bean with the precision of a surgeon. “He’s a dentist. Very stable.”
I offered a noncommittal hum and shoveled a spoonful of potatoes into my mouth, hoping the sheer volume of carbs would form a protective wall against further inquiries.
Across the table, my brother, Ben, caught my eye and gave me a look that was one part sympathy, two parts ‘you’re on your own, sis.’ Traitor.
“A dentist, Margie? That’s nice,” my Aunt Carol chimed in, her voice dripping with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for lottery wins. “Good with his hands, I bet.”
A hot flush crept up my neck, a preview of the full-body cringe to come. My family operated on the firm belief that my single status was a community problem, a puzzle for them to solve with a rotating cast of eligible bachelors they’d cataloged from church bulletins and grocery store run-ins. They meant well. Their love was a warm, smothering, hand-knitted afghan of good intentions, and it was threatening to suffocate me.
“I’m really busy with the shop,” I said, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere near frantic. “The Pumpkin Ridge Festival is just a few weeks away, and I’m drowning in orders for mums and those little gourds that look like swans.”
“You can’t build a life on swan-shaped gourds, Lillian,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. It was the same tone she used when reminding me to get my oil changed or go to confession.
My father, bless his quiet heart, attempted a diversion. “The roast is excellent, dear. Really top-notch.”
It was a valiant effort, but it was like trying to stop a freight train with a well-placed compliment.
My seven-year-old daughter, Olivia, seated beside me, chose that moment to contribute. “Mommy’s life is built on flowers and glitter,” she said matter-of-factly, not looking up from her mission to construct a potato fortress around her peas. “And me.”
A wave of warmth, potent as mulled cider, washed through me. I squeezed her knee under the table. See? My life was perfectly full.
“Of course, sweetheart,” my mother cooed, but her focus snapped right back to me. “But wouldn’t it be nice to have someone help with all that … glitter?”
Before I could formulate a response that wasn’t just a primal scream, the doorbell rang.
A sudden, expectant hush fell over the dining room. Every head except Olivia’s and mine turned toward the front hall. A slow, creeping dread began to bloom in my stomach. This was not a normal Sunday family dinner occurrence. We were a ‘walk-in-through-the-back-door’ kind of family. The doorbell was reserved for package deliveries and, apparently, ambushes.
“I’ll get it!” my Uncle Mike declared, already halfway out of his chair with suspicious speed.
My mother fussed with her napkin, a faint, hopeful blush on her cheeks. Ben leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. The look he shot me now was pure, uncut amusement. He knew. Of course, he knew.
I felt like an animal in a nature documentary, the one all by itself, who hasn’t noticed the predator circling.
A moment later, Uncle Mike returned, clapping a man on the shoulder. The man was… fine. He was aggressively, generically fine. Khakis, a blue button-down, a navy sweater vest, and a nervous smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was holding a pumpkin pie like it was a shield.
“Everyone, this is Todd,” my mother announced, her voice trembling with triumph. “He’s a friend of Gary Novak’s. I ran into him at the market and told him we always have room for one more at Sunday dinner.”
The lie was so audacious, so beautifully crafted, that I could almost admire it. Todd looked around the table of a dozen Sage family members, all staring at him, his smile faltering. He looked as ambushed as I felt.
“I, uh, I hope I’m not interrupting,” he stammered, holding out the pie. The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg wafted from the golden crust, mingling with the already-overwhelming aroma of my mother’s feast.
“Nonsense!” my mother chirped, taking the offering. “Lily, make some room for Todd.”
This was it. My personal circle of hell, complete with a potluck dessert. Todd was squeezed into a chair beside me, the scent of his generic cologne warring with the cozy aroma of my mother’s apple crumble, which was already on the sideboard. My family, their matchmaking mission in full swing, launched a volley of painfully cheerful questions at him. What did he do? (Financial planning.) Where did he live? (A condo on the other side of town.) Was he allergic to cats, gluten, or commitment? (No, no, and a panicked ‘not at all!’)
I sat there, a polite smile plastered on my face, feeling my soul slowly vacate my body. I could feel their collective will pressing in, trying to smoosh me and this poor, unsuspecting financial planner together like two halves of a mismatched Tupperware set. I just had to get through this. Survive the apple crumble and Todd’s pie, then bundle Olivia into the car and escape back to my quiet, man-free existence.
My mother cleared her throat, her gaze flicking between me and Todd. “Lily is so creative,” she said to him, as if I weren’t present. “She owns that lovely flower shop on the square. Sage & Bloom.”
