Page 81 of Pumpkin Spicy

Dylan looks embarrassed but proud. “That’s all Tricia’s marketing and your ideas. I just build the stuff.”

“Stuff that made kids believe in fairies again,” she says softly.

Quinn squeezes Tricia’s hand. “And adults.”

The conversation turns easy—stories about the crowds, the chaos, the little miracles that kept them going.

It ends with Lanie talking about my crew showing up the morning of the festival prepared to work. And with crockpots of food and folding chairs so they could stay the whole day.

“Heroes,” Lanie leans into me. “Every last one of you.”

“Guess we’ve got a soft spot for pumpkins,” I say. “And beautiful women with stubborn streaks.”

Quinn clears his throat and sets down his cup. “Before we all get too sentimental?—”

“Too late,” Lanie teases.

He grins. “—I did some math this afternoon.”

The group quiets. Even the fire seems to pause.

“Well?” Chase asks. “How bad is it?”

Quinn lets the suspense build a second longer, then breaks into a wide, boyish grin. “We’re in the black.”

For a heartbeat, no one moves. Then Tricia squeals. Dylan whoops loud enough to startle an owl out of a nearby tree. Lanie covers her mouth with both hands, eyes wet.

“We did it?” she breathes.

“We did it,” Quinn says, his voice thick. “Paid off the note and then some. The patch stays ours.”

Cheers and laughter ripple around the fire. Someone pops a thermos lid like it’s champagne.

“And,” Quinn adds, lifting his cup again, “word around town is Chad and Karen have finally pushed their luck too far. Between the food-poisoning fiasco a couple weeks ago, bribing the local paper, and a few shady business deals, the bank’s telling them to lay low. Looks like they’ll be leaving us alone for a while.”

“That’s karma,” Katelyn says. “Served piping hot.”

“Like our corndogs,” Chase mutters, earning another elbow.

“So.” Quinn raises his cup once more. “Who wants to keep this thing going another season?”

Every hand lifts without hesitation. Even mine.

“Guess that’s unanimous,” he says.

We clink cups, coffee sloshing, laughter overlapping the night sounds.

Lanie leans into me again, her voice a whisper meant only for us. “Think we can handle another season?”

I look around—at her brothers, their partners, the glow of the farm we all fought to save—and smile. “Yeah,” I tell her. “I think we’re just getting started.”