Page 137 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

“Why?”

“Because Rosie will know.”

“She knows everything.”

“No. She will know this is a date.” She said it like I should be scared about the fact, but instead, a small part of me was thrilled. I had nothing to hide.

I pulled away from the ranch. For the first ten minutes, the conversation stayed easy. She complained about Earl arguing with her over feed storage. I told her Jax had nearly thrown a socket wrench at me because I moved his music playlist. She asked whether he genuinely liked Bad Omens that much. I told her he went through phases and would probably discover jazz next month.

We argued about whether early September counted as fall.

She insisted the town could decide whatever it wanted, but ninety-degree weather made pumpkins feel delusional. By the time Main Street came into view, she had relaxed farther into the seat.

I noticed because I had started noticing everything about her, and that was becoming a problem.

Willow Creek had transformed, again, since the festival announcement.

The town usually decorated heavily for September first, but now that everyone knew Marigold Ranch was hosting again, people seemed to have taken it personally.

Orange lights wrapped every tree along Main Street. Storefront windows had been painted with ghosts, moons, black cats, pumpkins, and leaves. The florist had filled an entire wagon with mums. Kids stood outside the community center painting pumpkins at folding tables while parents talked nearby. Iris Bennett’s bookstore even displayed a stack of horror novels beside a hand-painted sign advertising GHOST STORIES AFTER DARK — SATURDAY NIGHTS IN OCTOBER.

Carson stared through the passenger glass. She didn’t look sad this time like she did the first time we drove through town in the truck.

“You missed this?”

She glanced toward me. “What?”

“Town.”

She looked back outside. “Sometimes.”

The tavern was impossible to miss. Rosie had somehow added more decorations since the committee meeting. Lanterns hung along the porch. Two massive carved pumpkins sat beside the entrance. The temporary SPICY PUMPKIN TAVERN sign had been framed with dried vines and orange lights.

Carson sighed when she saw it.

“What?”

“She’s going to be unbearable.”

“You said that about Meme.”

“They share a disease.”

Inside, the place was busy. Friday night in Willow Creek rarely meant wild nightlife, but the tavern was as close as the town got. Music played low enough to talk over. Every table had a candle inside a small amber jar. A chalkboard above the bar listed seasonal drinks.

Pumpkin beer.

Spiced cider.

The Witching Hour.

Rosie spotted us before the door closed even through the crowd. Her eyes moved from me to Carson. For exactly half a second, she looked delighted, and then it vanished as she made her way over to us.

“Table by the window.”

Carson narrowed her eyes at me. “You reserved one?”

“I thought it would be a good idea in case it was busy.”