Page 19 of A Love Like Pumpkin Spice (Wayward Hollow #1)

Nic

“Maybe you’ll get to meet Chaos this time,” I say with a giggle as Henry and I approach my house. The box with Cinnamon is firmly under my arm, and he’s balancing a bag that contains several cans of cat food on his shoulder, with Jensen’s food under the other arm.

Could I have carried it myself? Absolutely. Am I going to stop a man from showing off and carrying it for me? Hell no.

“Thanks for helping me out.”

“Of course,” he says with a groan as he puts the bag of cat food down on my porch while I unlock the door.

“Can you stay while I introduce Cinnamon to Pumpkin?” I give him a pleading glance. “You know, in case one wants to claw out the other’s eyes. I could bribe you with dinner?” The corner of his mouth twitches in amusement.

“I’d do it without bribery, but I also won’t say no to dinner.”

A giggle escapes me as I push the door open. A giggle? Oh God, I’ve reached the giggle stage of meeting a man. Closely followed by the rambling stage.

Hopefully, I won’t reveal anything too embarrassing when it begins. During Jay’s and my second date, I kept going on about completely random topics, but hey, now he knows that octopuses have three hearts.

I c an sense Chaos as soon as I step inside—her warm presence as she rubs against my calf, even a soft vibration of her purring against my leg. Henry seems oblivious, though.

“Let’s get this over with,” I mutter and walk into my living room, where Pumpkin hangs out in her little shoe box. Good thing I have enough boxes to home a zoo from my move. Two of them are coming in handy already, and who knows what else Chaos has planned for me?

Pumpkin is wide awake and trying to climb to freedom, shouting at me for daring to keep her confined. I scoop her into my arms as soon as I set down Cinnamon.

“She’s exploring now and regularly gets herself into all kinds of trouble.

I had to put her in box-jail while I brought Cinnamon to you,” I explain, stepping out of my shoes and kicking them into a corner.

“So … how do I do this? Just put them on the ground together and see what happens?

How do we separate them if they try to claw each other's eyes out?”

“Let’s let them have a sniff while holding them, and once we’ve determined they don’t hate each other, we can put them down.”

“Okay,” I say with a solemn nod and reposition Pumpkin in my arms to get a better hold on her tiny body. Meanwhile, Henry takes Cinnamon out of her box and cradles her to his chest like a baby.

I don’t think I’ve ever been jealous of a cat until this exact moment. Henry’s arms look comfortable. And strong. I gulp. Since when do I fantasize about a guy’s arms?

“Okay,” Henry mumbles, gently stroking Cinnamon’s head. “Yes, you’re a chill little lady. I’m sure you’re going to love having a little sister. Here you go.” He steps closer, and I turn, letting the two cats see each other.

Then suddenly, he’s very close. I breathe in his scent that reminds me of freshly brewed coffee and cinnamon. The warmth radiat ing from him sends heat into my face and makes me forget how to breathe.

And when I glance up, his face is right there . Right in front of me.

His broad shoulders make the cat in his arms appear tiny, his sweatshirt tight over his muscles. A lump forms in my throat and my knees turn weak; I am almost incapacitated by my overwhelming feelings.

Can I allow myself to have these feelings? These butterflies in my stomach, this soothing warmth that spreads over me like a wool blanket when he is near?

I swallow hard.

“Ahw, they’re getting along,” he whispers, his breath feathering over my hair, sending a shiver down my spine and butterflies racing in my stomach.

No, Nic, get a grip. This is about the cats, not the hot guy that might not even be into me. He comes even closer, and our arms touch, sending electric zings all over my skin. But we had that moment , that almost-kiss in his practice, at the worst timing possible.

Calm down, Nic. Deep breaths.

Pumpkin is wriggling in my hold, trying to climb into Henry’s arms, and I can’t blame her.

“I think we can set them down,” Henry suggests, and I quickly take a step back.

“Okay.” My voice is barely above a whisper, my heart beating so fast I’m afraid it’s about to jump out of my ribcage. Fuck.

This wasn’t planned. Romance wasn’t part of the “romanticizing life” plan I made for myself.

But Lauren’s words keep repeating in my head, and I can’t help but wonder—is that a bad thing?

I mean, I had my whole life planned before, and I know how that turned out.

Will doing not-planned things lead to a different outcome?

As soon as all eight paws touch the ground, the cats cautiously move toward each other. They walk in circles, trying to gauge the other. Before I know it, Cinnamon has Pumpkin in a loving headlock, grooming her while Pumpkin’s eyes are closed in bliss.

“Well, that worked out perfectly,” I joke with a nervous giggle, crossing my arms in front of my chest to stop them from reaching out to Henry.

“It did.” I can hear the grin in his voice before I even glance at him. “Still, check on them occasionally. If one gets annoyed, separate them for a while and keep them in different rooms until they’ve calmed down.”

“Okay,” I whisper with a nod and tilt my head, a grin tugging at my lips. “What about my ghost cat, though? I can’t exactly keep her out of a room.”

“I don’t know, maybe put salt in front of the room’s door?” he jokes and reaches for Jensen’s leash as he tries to approach, all of us leaving the living room. “Nope, buddy, let’s give them some bonding time. Out with you.”

“Aw, do you feel left out?” I ask Jensen, voice dripping with exaggerated sympathy, and he answers with a high awoo-woo! immediately trotting over to me when I crouch down to pet him.

“Let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll have bonding time with you.

” Once we’re there, I turn around and look at Henry.

“How do you feel about”—I open my fridge, grimacing when I realize it might hold a lot of food, but most of it is too complicated for my currently empty and impatient stomach—“mac and cheese?”

“Sounds perfect,” he says with a chuckle. “As long as you don’t judge me for going back for thirds.”

“No promises.” I smirk. “But I do admire a man who appreciates the finer things in life. Powdered cheese, for example.”

“ Right?” His grin widens. “I almost thought you were trying to seduce me with your cooking skills. My mother warned me about women like you.”

“Careful, or I’ll make you help stir. That’s how it starts: you fall for the cook, then boom . You’re stuck grating cheese forever.”

“I’d grate cheese for you.”

I clutch my heart, acting as if I’m blinking away tears. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

We both break into laughter, and suddenly, an invisible curtain has lifted, the negative mood from before melting off us faster than frost on a spring morning.

While I cook, he feeds his dog. When he’s done, he chops up a salad to go with the cheesy goodness, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s … nice. Sweet. Weirdly domestic.

The kind of too-good-to-be-true that makes you suspicious if you’ve ever watched one or three hundred true crime documentaries.

The future I always thought I wanted.

We eat together, but my mind won’t sit still. It keeps doing mental gymnastics, flipping back to Jay.

How on earth did I ever imagine that future with him? A guy who, sure, never said it outright, but definitely had that women belong in the kitchen energy—wrapped in polite smiles and “Babe, you’re just so good at this” excuses. How did I miss how unbalanced it all was?

And then—Henry dries the dishes. Just picks up a towel and goes for it. No need to ask nicely, no need to thank him extensively unless I want him to pout for the rest of the night.

When we head back to the living room, there’s this quiet question hanging between us, more fragile than a soap bubble—do I want him to go home?

The answer is no. I don’t.

“ Do you want some dessert? I have some ice cream?” I offer awkwardly, wringing my hands.

“I have salted caramel and pistachio. I was trying to get into this whole Dubai chocolate trend, but I don’t see it.

Maybe I did it wrong, though I—” Stop, Nic.

Take a deep breath. There it is. Rambling.

I grimace, one of those tight, lopsided smiles that practically screams, well, that was too much. “Sorry.”

“I’d love pistachio ice cream,” he offers with a faint smile and follows me back into the kitchen. “I don’t think I ever asked, but how have you settled in here in Wayward Hollow?”

“I love it here,” I quickly assure him. “I mean, after the unexpected curveballs in the beginning, I was a little skeptical, but you know what? I think everything”—I wave my hand through the air while opening my freezer with the other one—“really turned out for the best, ultimately. No offense, Chaos,” I say more loudly as I close the door again, ice cream tub in hand.

“Everyone is super nice, here. I couldn’t go a week in LA without getting screamed at by a director, co-star, or paparazzi. It’s relaxing to be away from people who freak out after recognizing me, or the obligation to only go out with a full face of makeup and styled to the nines.”

“Oh, Kieran freaked out plenty, though.”

“But I don’t have fans running toward me whenever I leave my home, demanding selfies,” I point out. He nods in understanding, and I brush past him to get out two bowls and spoons. “I’m finally living for myself again and it’s … freeing. I really needed that.”

“I’m glad,” he whispers as I scoop out the ice cream then take the spoon I used into my mouth and hand him his bowl. “You’ve got some …” He gestures to my cheek, and I instinctively reach up to wipe it away.

“Didn’t get it,” he says gently. “May I?”

I nod, maybe too quickly, and he immediately steps closer, brushing his thumb lightly across my skin.

Ice cream. Of course. Because nothing says cool, calm, and collected like dessert on your face.

Then he lifts his thumb to his mouth and licks it clean, and my eyes follow the movement on instinct, shameless and quicker than my self-control.

My cheeks heat up instantly. I’m pretty sure my heart forgets how to beat at a normal pace.

And he doesn’t step back.

No, he leans in even more, a small smile tugging at his lips as his hands come up to gently cradle my face.

Everything stills. I forget how to breathe. How to think.

“I’m not imagining this, am I?” he whispers, his eyes darting over my face with an intensity as though he’s trying to remember every single detail.

“Hell no. I mean, you’re not.” A faint giggle slips out before I can stop it, and I put my hands on his hips, the soft fabric of his sweatshirt resting under my palms. He crowds me against the kitchen island until a sheet of paper couldn’t fit between the two of us.

“I don’t want to rush you.” His eyes dart from my lips to my eyes, searching for an answer to a question only he knows in my face. “With your ex, and—”

“Could you please not talk about my ex in a situation like this?” I press my lips together, but a grin is already creeping across my face.

“I don’t give a fuck about him. But I think I give one hell of a fuck about you.

” His hands are now on the kitchen island right behind my back, caging me in.

“I can’t promise being with me will be easy.

I’ve been told I’m high maintenance, talk too much, am too much. ”

I pull back just enough to breathe, when one of his hands wanders to my waist, warm and grounding. Calming. Even if nervousness craws over my skin as if I’ve stepped out onto a ledge and haven’t dared peeking down the abyss yet.

“ I want this,” I admit softly, Lauren’s words echoing in my head. “I do. I really do. I’m just …” I exhale, trying to untangle the knot in my chest. “There’s still some leftover debris. From before.”

His brow furrows gently. “Debris?”

“Yeah. You know—emotional wreckage. Post-cheating storm damage. You know, trust issues with a side of flinching anytime someone’s phone buzzes after midnight.”

He doesn’t laugh, and I’m glad. He nods, eyes steady on mine. “That makes sense.”

“And I don’t want to bring it into this. Into what could be an ‘us.’” I shrug one shoulder, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “But I probably will sometimes. Not on purpose. But … out of habit, maybe.”

“Then we’ll break the habit. Together.”

God, this guy.

“I might need you to tell me more than once that you’re not like him,” I admit. “And I might not always believe it right away.”

“I’ll keep telling you anyway.”

There’s something in his voice—low and even, not performative. He’s not trying to be a hero. He’s just here. With me. Trying to assure me that he’s all in. That he’s got me.

I swallow hard. “Okay. So, if I completely panic out of nowhere one night and ask you weird, slightly invasive questions like ‘why did your ex break up with you,’ or ‘who’s Amanda in your phone?’ you’ll … what? Not run?”

“I’ll probably tell you about how I put my arm up one of her cow’s asses, hand you my phone, and ask if you want coffee or wine while you read through my messages. I have nothing to hide, Nic.”

I huff out a laugh, eyes stinging the tiniest bit. “You’re either incredibly patient or mildly unhinged.”

“ Maybe a bit of both,” he says with a grin, then brushes his thumb along my cheek. “But mostly, I think you’re worth the risk.”

Silence settles over us, but not the bad kind. The kind that settles softer than a warm blanket.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Then let’s try. I’m in. Cautiously. Anxiously. Probably with some unnecessary commentary.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less. And I’ll be more than happy to shut you up like this.”

He leans in again, and when our lips finally touch, it doesn’t feel like falling. It feels like choosing. And I think that might be even scarier—but better.

So much better.