Page 153 of Trick or Stalk

By six thirty, I’ve learned two things.

One, I’m terrible at carving pumpkins.

Two, I’m having fun anyway.

Music plays from speakers near the center of downtown.

Families move between vendors carrying cider, caramel apples, kettle corn, and enough pumpkin-flavored food to sustain Hollow Creek until Christmas.

Long tables line the blocked-off street. Dozens of people sit around them carving pumpkins.

Mine looks constipated.

“This is embarrassing.”

The man sitting across from me laughs. “I think he has character.”

“He looks like he needs medical attention.”

“He’s expressive.”

“He’s suffering.”

The guy smiles. His name is Caleb.

At least, I think it is.

He introduced himself ten minutes ago, but I was busy trying not to slice my thumb open.

He’s attractive.

Brown hair. Blue eyes. Nice smile.

And completely harmless-looking.

Which apparently does nothing for me anymore.

Because instead of noticing any of those things, my mind supplies smoky gray eyes and a man who looks vaguely homicidal even while drinking coffee.

Fantastic.

Caleb gestures toward my pumpkin. “You need help?”

“I need divine intervention.”

“I can fix him.”

“No.”

His eyebrows rise.

“I created this nightmare. I’m finishing it.”

He laughs.

I smile and resume carving.

From the corner of my eye, I see a flash of white.