Page 7 of The Pumpkin Spice Proposal
This town—this stupid, cheerful, pumpkin-spice-scented town—was already proving more complicated than I’d bargained for. And something told me that Lily Sage, with her determined smile and her war against broken cash registers, was going to be the most complicated part of all.
CHAPTER3
Lily
If there wasone place in Autumn Grove where I felt completely, unshakably in charge, it was the Pumpkin Ridge Festival grounds in the days leading up to the opening. This was my turf. My Super Bowl. My canvas. The sprawling town park, normally just a quiet expanse of green grass and picnic tables, was in the process of its annual glorious transformation, and I was the head conductor of the chaos.
The air smelled of sawdust, crisp leaves, and the faint, sugary promise of cider donuts to come. Volunteers in bright orange vests buzzed around like busy bees, hammering together stalls, stringing lights between lampposts, and unloading what looked like the entire state of Michigan’s pumpkin supply from a flatbed truck. My flower shop, Sage & Bloom, was responsible for all the “organic decor,” which was a fancy way of saying I was in charge of making everything look effortlessly autumnal and charming, a task that required a military-level degree of planning and a frankly heroic amount of burlap.
“The cornstalks go on either side of the entrance arch, Gary, notonthe arch,” I called out, gesturing with the clipboard I was holding. “We want it to look welcoming, not like a fire hazard!”
Gary, a sweet retiree who volunteered every year, gave me a thumbs-up and started relocating the massive bundles. I made a note on my clipboard.Check fire extinguisher placement near the petting zoo.
I was in my element. My hair was scraped back in its usual functional bun, my favorite worn-in boots were perfect for navigating the muddy patches near the hay bale maze, and my veins were coursing with a potent mix of caffeine and pure, unadulterated organizational adrenaline. This was the one area of my life where there was no ambiguity, no messy emotions, just a checklist and a vision.
My daughter, Olivia, was my official “Glitter Consultant” for the day. She was sitting at a picnic table I’d designated as our command center, diligently applying an alarming amount of purple glitter glue to a row of mini-pumpkins. Her tongue was sticking out in concentration, a smear of something sticky already on her cheek.
“These are for the ticket booth, Mommy,” she announced, holding one up for my inspection. It was a masterpiece of seven-year-old artistry, more glitter than gourd.
“It’s perfect, sweetie. The ticket booth has never looked so glamorous.”
She beamed, and my heart did its familiar little flip. This was my a-team. My whole world. Who needed a boring boyfriend when you had a glitter consultant and a thousand pumpkins to wrangle? The memory of Todd the Financial Planner and his unfortunate encounter with my daughter’s brutal honesty was already fading, replaced by the satisfying hum of productivity.
The only small, irritating disturbance in my otherwise perfect afternoon was currently leaning against the side of the bandstand, arms crossed, looking bored and superior. Mario Marrone. Mr. Broody McRacecar himself.
He was here. In my domain. Apparently, Ben had decided his best friend’s recovery plan should include “fresh air and manual labor,” and had dragged him here to “help.” So far, his helping had consisted of watching everyone else work while radiating an aura of silent, judgmental disapproval. He hadn’t said a word to me since the cash register incident yesterday, for which I was grateful. The humiliation of that moment was still fresh, a hot spot of embarrassment every time I thought of it. Him, effortlessly fixing in ten seconds what I’d been fighting with for ten minutes. And the way he’d looked at me afterward… like I was a fascinating but deeply flawed specimen he was studying for a project.
I determinedly turned my back on him and focused on my next task: the grand pumpkin pyramid. It was to be the centerpiece of the festival entrance, a towering monument to autumnal abundance. I had a sketch on my clipboard, a carefully calculated structure of graduating sizes, interspersed with hay bales and decorated with trailing ivy.
“Okay, folks, let’s get the big ones in place for the base!” I called out to a group of teenage volunteers from the high school football team.
They started carrying the behemoth pumpkins into position, their grunts and laughter echoing in the crisp air. I directed them with hand signals, feeling a surge of satisfaction as the base of my pyramid began to take shape. This was going to be magnificent. A triumph of festive engineering.
I was so absorbed in my work I didn’t notice him approach until he was standing right beside me, casting a long shadow over my clipboard.
“That’s not stable,” he said. His voice was a low rumble, devoid of any inflection.
I bristled, my back stiffening. I did not turn to look at him. “Excuse me?”
“The base. It’s too narrow for the height you’re planning.” He pointed a long finger at my sketch. “Your center of gravity will be too high. The first strong wind or unsupervised child, and the whole thing’s going to come down.”
I finally turned, ready to deliver a sharp retort about how I’d been building this pyramid for five years and it had never once collapsed. But the words died in my throat. Up close, he was… a lot. Taller than I remembered. Broader. The sunlight caught the dark stubble on his jaw, and the bruise on his cheekbone was a stark purple contrast to his olive skin. He smelled of clean, sharp soap and something else, something faintly metallic and masculine that had no business being in my pumpkin patch.
“I’m an expert in swan-shaped gourds,” I said, my voice coming out much sweeter than I’d intended. “I think I can handle a few pumpkins.”
A flicker of something—amusement? annoyance?—crossed his face. “I’m an expert in things that go very fast and fall apart spectacularly when the physics are wrong.”
He wasn’t wrong, of course. That was the most infuriating part. I had noticed the base looked a little … optimistic. I’d been planning to shore it up with extra hay bales later. But I would die before I admitted that to him. Not after he’d conquered my cash register with a flick of his thumb. My flower shop and this festival were the two places I didn’t need rescuing.
“Thank you for the unsolicited engineering consultation,” I said, turning back to the volunteers. “It’s fine. We’re using the interlocking method.” I had just invented the interlocking method. It sounded official.
He made a soft, disbelieving sound in his throat but, to my immense relief, retreated back to his post at the bandstand. I could feel his eyes on me, though, a heavy weight on the back of my neck. I spent the next twenty minutes overcompensating, barking orders with extra confidence, pretending my grand design was flawless.
The pyramid was about half-built, a respectable five feet high, when the rogue gourd made its move. It was a mid-sized, perfectly round pumpkin, the kind that looks like it was born to roll. One of the football players, trying to show off for a passing cheerleader, had tossed it to the top of the pile instead of placing it carefully. It landed, wobbled for a half-second like a cartoon character contemplating its fate, and then began its descent.
It bounced off a larger pumpkin, ricocheted off a hay bale, and shot out sideways, gathering speed as it rolled across the uneven grass. Directly into my path.
I was walking backward at the time, clipboard in hand, admiring my handiwork. “See?” I was saying to no one in particular, but loud enough for Mario to hear. “Perfectly stable.”
