Page 9 of Melting the Grump
Thirty minutes later, I step outside into the crisp night air. The streets of Whitetail Falls are quiet now, most shops closed for the evening. Overhead, stars pierce the clear sky. I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck and begin the walk home, fallen leaves crunching beneath my boots.
My mind replays the evening: Scott's revelation about his father, his insight about my own uncertainties, the way his blue eyes seemed to see past my carefully constructed confidence.
As I turn onto Willowbrook, the glow of my porch light beckons in the distance. Tomorrow brings the council vote, more festival preparations, and inevitably, more interactions withScott. I should be focused on securing approval, on budgets and timelines, on proving myself to this town.
Instead, I find myself wondering what it would take to see behind Scott's walls again, to draw out the man who notices everything, who listens so intently, who carries old wounds and still finds room for dry humor. The man whose approval, for reasons I'm not ready to examine, has come to matter more than the entire council's combined.
This isn't what I came to Whitetail Falls for. It isn't what I planned.
But as the autumn wind whispers through the trees, carrying the promise of frost by morning, I can't deny the truth: Scott Martin has become more than a hurdle to overcome.
He's become a puzzle I desperately want to solve.
Chapter 4 – Scott
The eastern sky blooms with streaks of pink and gold as I pull up to the entrance of Harvest Hollow in my truck. The weather service warned of a storm system moving in later today, but for now, the world sparkles with crystalline clarity.
I spot Abigail immediately. She stands near the wooden archway marking the entrance to the festival grounds, clipboard in hand, curls tumbling free beneath a burgundy knit cap. She's wrapped in a cream-colored cardigan over jeans, practical boots on her feet, looking both professional and somehow perfectly at home.
My chest tightens at the sight of her, a reaction I'm still not comfortable acknowledging.
Something about Abigail pulls truth from me, as if those warm brown eyes of hers can see straight through the barriers I've built. It's unsettling. Dangerous, even.
But here I am, showing up at seven in the morning because she texted asking if I could walk through the vendor layout she’s planning.
She waves as I approach, her smile bright enough to rival the sunrise. "You came."
"I said I would." I shove my hands into the pockets of my jacket, suddenly unsure what to do with them. "Let's see what we're working with."
If she notices my gruffness, she doesn't show it. Instead, she falls into step beside me, close enough that I catch the scent of something floral and spicy.
"We've marked out fifty vendor spaces," she explains, leading me past the entrance arch. "Local crafters, food vendors, artisans from neighboring towns. The response has been incredible."
Harvest Hollow stretches before us. It's been the site of smaller seasonal events before, but nothing on the scale Abigail envisions. She’s flagged out vendor spaces with stakes and ribbons, using props and borrowed displays to sketch the picture of what the festival could look like.
"The pumpkin patch will be there," she points to an area where dozens of pumpkins in various sizes have been artfully arranged among straw. "We're bringing in a petting zoo for the children over there, and the performance stage will be at the far end, against that cluster of trees."
As we walk, I mentally catalog potential issues: drainage problems if it rains, narrow pathways that could become bottlenecks, electric lines that need proper covering. Yet I find myself distracted by Abigail's enthusiasm.
"What do you think?" she asks, pausing in a clearing where wooden stakes and orange tape mark out a large circle.
"This is...?"
"The bonfire and cider station." She looks up at me, suddenly uncertain. "Too ambitious?"
I should say yes. A controlled fire with hundreds of people around requires permits, safety equipment, trained personnel. Instead, I hear myself asking, "Have you spoken with the Fire Chief?"
Her face brightens. "Yesterday. He's bringing a team to oversee it and suggested we use a metal fire ring as a barrier."
"Smart," I concede. "You'll need fire extinguishers stationed every twenty feet around the perimeter."
"Already on the list." She pulls a checklist from her clipboard, showing me the detailed safety measures she's planned.
Again, I'm struck by her thoroughness. "You're not making it easy for me to find problems," I admit.
Her laugh sends an inexplicable warmth through my chest. "I believe that's called a compliment, Scott Martin."
"Don't get used to it."
