Page 11 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

Tate

I thought I knew what loneliness was until I saw you pretending to smile for everyone else. You don’t have to pretend with me. Not ever.

-Tate

I ’m crouched on the deck of my dad’s boat, knuckles raw and grease on my forearms, trying to loosen a rusted bolt that refuses to budge, when I hear the soft patter of tiny feet.

The little feet stop next to me on the dock.

“Hi! Are you a pirate?”I look up, blinking into the late afternoon sun, to see a little girl in a sparkly purple jacket, pigtails flying, one front tooth missing, and the biggest grin I’ve seen in days.

She’s standing on the dock, arms crossed, like she owns the place.

Before I can answer, I hear a familiar low chuckle—that of my friend Remy, who owns the tree farm on the edge of town.

He’s also Donna’s son and Finn’s brother.

A long-time friend of mine. “This is Junie,” he says proudly, catching up with her and scooping her up easily.

“She’s five now. Thought it was time you two met properly again.

I also might have told her you’re a pirate. ”

I feel something twist deep in my chest. She was three when I left, had chubby cheeks and soft curls and was still toddling around. Now here she is, bright-eyed and chatty, looking at me like I’m cooler than I am.

“Hi Junie,” I say softly, wiping my hands on a rag. “This was my dad’s boat. I bet it has a pirate history.”

She plants her little hands on her hips. “Daddy said you went away for a long time. Where’d you go? Prison?”

Remy chuckles behind her. “Not prison, kiddo, Tate’s a fisherman. Remember what I told you? Tate and I are buddies.”

Junie turns back to me, eyes wide. “Do you know where the treasure is? Every pirate ship has treasure.”

I crouch down so we’re eye level, the corner of my mouth tugging into a grin I haven’t felt in a long time. “You’re right. Only brave sailors can find it, though. Got a map?”

Her entire face lights up as she pulls out a wrinkled piece of paper drawn in crayon, with lines zigzagging everywhere. “I do! Daddy helped me!”

Remy crosses his arms and leans against the dock railing, watching his daughter with a tired fondness that makes my chest ache again. There’s more weight on him now, lines around his eyes I don’t remember, a quiet steadiness that wasn’t there before.

“It’s just me and her now,” he says quietly, catching my gaze over Junie’s head. “A lot has changed since you left.”

I nod slowly, carefully. “I heard.”

Remy and his wife split up. They had a very public divorce, and she lives in Boston. I’ve heard she hasn’t seen or talked to Junie in a long time. And I can't really understand that.Old Pete looks after Remy because he and Donna have been friends for decades. He isn’t a fan of Remy’s ex.

He nods too, but there’s nothing bitter in his voice, just quiet acceptance. “We’re doing okay.”

Junie crouches near an old crab trap, tapping it like she expects it to pop open and reveal gold coins. “Why’s this boat so rusty, Captain Tate? Did the treasure make it rusty?”

That makes me laugh out loud. “Exactly that. Pirate gold does that.”

She giggles and spins in a circle, making up a song about rusty treasure and crab pirates.

Remy watches her for a minute, then glances back at me. “I heard you’re planning on sticking around. That true?”

The question settles heavily between us, but there’s no judgment in his voice, just curiosity.

“I think so,” I say. “Yeah. I think I am.”

His smile is small but genuine. “It’d be good if you did. Missed you.”

I don’t know why that hits so hard. Maybe because it’s simple and honest. And real. And I need good people like that in my life. Maybe because I did miss this place, this life, even when I tried to convince myself otherwise.

“I missed a lot,” I say, and it comes out rougher than I expect.

Remy follows my gaze as Junie climbs up on the captain’s chair, pretending to steer the ship, humming to herself without a care in the world.

“Plenty of time to catch up,” he says. “You’ll have to come to one of our Friday pizza nights. Finn’s a regular.”

I nod, “Yeah, that’d be good.”

Then I hear familiar voices from the dock.

Rowan and Ivy, arms linked, coffee cups in hand, strolling toward us.“Heyyy, Holloway!” Rowan calls out, loud enough for the entire harbor to hear. “You done pretending to fix that boat yet?”

Ivy grins, adding wiggling her fingers, playfully, “We’re watching you, you know. Break our sister’s heart again, and we’ll feed you to the lobsters.”

Remy laughs under his breath beside me. “You really picked the stubborn one. Rowan is…a little unhinged. Ivy is the sweet one. I guess you messed up when the sweet one is making threats at you.”

“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head, but smiling despite myself. “I definitely did.”

Remy lifts an eyebrow. “Speaking of…how are things with Willa?”

I sigh, laughing under my breath as I lean back against the railing. “She’s a hard one to win over. Not as welcoming as the rest of the town.”

He nods, not missing a beat. “Yeah.”

Junie jumps down from the chair and comes to tug at my sleeve, holding up two of my bottles, looking up at me earnestly. “Do pirates leave messages in bottles too, Mr. Tate?”

I freeze for a second, then laugh, crouching again so we’re eye level. “Yeah. Sometimes that’s how they say what they can’t say out loud.”

She nods, as if that makes perfect sense.

Remy claps me on the shoulder as he hoists Junie back into his arms. “Good luck, man,” he says, eyes twinkling. “You’re gonna need it.”

They head down the dock, Junie waving enthusiastically over his shoulder, and I can’t help but stand there watching them for a moment longer than I probably should.

Ivy and Rowan come up to where I’m standing.

Rowan nudges me with her coffee cup. “So…ready to co-chair a festival with our very difficult sister?”

I shake my head. “I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

Ivy snorts. “Yeah, but this is how you can get her to talk to you. And nice touch with the message in the bottle by the way. I’ve caught her re-reading the note.”

This makes me smile. Because for the first time since I left, this feels…right. Like I’m exactly where I should be, surrounded by people who know me, even the parts I tried to leave behind.

Even Willa. Especially Willa.

I wasn’t planning on running into Willa tonight. But that doesn't mean she's not on my mind.

I've missed Marco's, andI just wanted pasta and maybe to sit in the back, enjoy a plate of something hot, and quietly figure out how I’m going to restore this boat and what I’m doing with my life.

But when I push open the door, there she is, already at the counter, arms crossed, waiting for her takeout order.

She looks lost in her thoughts despite Marco’s busy arcade and families packed in at every table.

She hasn’t noticed me yet. Then she glances up, and her eyes meet mine.And there it is, that spark, that flash of annoyance mixed with something else she probably doesn’t want to admit is still there.She turns back to the counter like she’s going to pretend she hasn’t seen me. Classic Willa.

Marco, of course, notices everything.

“Ahhh, look at this,” he booms, leaning over the counter toward us with a grin as wide as Main Street itself. “Two beautiful people ordering pasta at the same time. You know what this means, yes?”

Willa closes her eyes briefly, as if she’s praying for strength. “Marco, please—” she starts.

But he’s already waving her off, delighted. “It’s a Lady and the Tramp moment!” he declares, gesturing between us. “Pasta dinner for two! I threw in extra! For the next great love story of Wisteria Cove!”

My laugh escapes before I can stop it, and Willa shoots me a sharp glare for encouraging him.

“You two! Come back soon for dinner together, eh?” Marco winks, sliding our takeout bags toward us with a flourish. “On the house tonight. My gift to love.”

Willa mutters a half-hearted “thanks” and grabs her bag quickly, like she can escape this entire situation if she moves fast enough. I catch up easily as we step outside, the cool autumn air cutting through the heat of embarrassment that Marco left in his wake.

“That was something,” I say, falling into step beside her.

She exhales hard. “This town...honestly.”

But she doesn’t walk away. She doesn’t tell me to go.

Instead, we end up walking side by side down Main Street, paper bags in hand, heading in the general direction of both her bookstore and my house. The easy silence between us is strange, comfortable, but charged, and I can’t help sneaking glances at her while we walk.

About halfway down the block, she hesitates.Then, almost grudgingly, she says, “I guess…you could come inside and eat. We could discuss the festival plans.”

It’s not an overly friendly invitation exactly, but it’s not nothing.

I don’t even pretend to play it cool. “Sure,” I say, keeping my tone light even though my heart’s thudding a little harder than it should.

When we reach the bookstore, I hold the door open for her. She unlocks it quickly, slipping inside, and I follow, only to realize there’s already a small crowd gathered on the sidewalk watching us through the window, smiling as if they’re watching a nineties romcom.

Seriously.

Even more townspeople are gathering. Pretending to chat with someone or sip coffee, but we can both feel their eyes on us.

“Unbelievable,” she mutters, locking the door firmly behind us and pulling down the shade that doesn't quite give us privacy. “They’re going to stare through the window the whole time.”

I glance toward the window where they're watching, waving exaggeratedly when they catch my eye.

Willa groans softly and turns toward the back of the shop. “Come on,” she says, jerking her chin toward a narrow staircase. “Upstairs. They can’t see us up there.”

I follow her up into her loft, and the second I climb inside, I’m floored.

This space… It’s so her. Cozy, lived-in, full of books stacked on every available surface.

String lights draped casually across the ceiling beams. A worn old sofa is tucked into a corner near the wide window that overlooks the harbor.

Soft throw blankets, mugs on the windowsill, a candle begging to be lit on the table.

I feel like I’m stepping right into her mind, and it’s warmer and softer than I expected. “This is…nice,” I say quietly, taking it all in.

She glances back at me, cautious, a little wary, but I catch the faintest hint of a smile. “It’s my cozy space,” she says.

She sets her takeout on the small table near the couch and pulls out two mismatched plates, handing me one without meeting my gaze directly.

“Sit,” she says, nodding toward the couch. “Eat. Discuss the festival. That’s all.”

“Of course,” I say, doing exactly what she says but grinning, anyway.

We sit across from each other, pasta warm on our laps, and for a while we don’t say much, just eat quietly while the sounds of the harbor drift in through the cracked window.

And down below? The townspeople slowly lose interest, one by one drifting away when they realize they can’t see anything from down there.

The silence between us stretches out, but it’s not uncomfortable anymore. If anything, it feels…right.

After a few minutes, Willa sighs softly and finally speaks. “I can’t believe we’re co-chairing this thing together,” she says, shaking her head. “I was supposed to be avoiding you.”

I chuckle. “You’ve been doing a terrible job of that.”

She rolls her eyes, but this time, there’s no heat behind it. And just like that, the frost melts slowly, carefully, and she lets her shoulders relax.

After we finish eating, she stands and carries the plates downstairs, and I follow.

“I’ll make coffee,” I offer, moving behind the counter before she can object.

She snorts, folding her arms as she leans back against the register. “You? Make coffee? This I have to see.”

I fumble around with the coffee machine like an idiot, knocking over the scoop and spilling grounds everywhere, which earns me my favorite thing so far tonight: Willa laughing. Really laughing. It’s bright and genuine and makes my chest ache in the best way.

“What kind of coffee maker is this? It's like a spaceship,” I chuckle.

She steps in close, reaching around me to take over. Her arm brushes mine, and the air shifts instantly. Warmer. Closer.“Let me show you how it’s done,” she murmurs, voice soft but edged with amusement.

I’m close enough to breathe her in—cinnamon, soap, and Italian food—and the urge to lean in nearly undoes me.

But then, as she pours water into the machine, I say, half-joking but half-serious: “You have to come learn to fish.”

She freezes.

Her smile falters slightly, and then she shakes her head.

“No,” she says firmly, quieter and colder this time. “I will never go out on the water.”

Her words land hard, sharper than she probably intended. But I don’t flinch. I watch her, seeing the truth beneath what she’s saying.

This isn’t about fishing. It’s about loss. And I get it.

So I lean in just a little, not enough to scare her, just enough so she knows I mean it when I say, “Okay… I’ll just have to learn your world instead.”

She hesitates, and for a heartbeat, I swear she almost softens completely, but then she straightens and hands me a steaming mug of coffee like that whole moment didn’t just happen.

I take it anyway, smiling gently. “Thanks for the company,” I murmur.

She doesn’t say anything back. But she doesn’t kick me out, either.

Instead, we fall into an easy rhythm, her jotting notes, me tossing in suggestions where I can.

The clock ticks on, the air warm with the scent of coffee and cinnamon, the lamplight pooling golden over stacks of papers and books.

For a few quiet hours, we’re just there together, in her cozy little space, going over festival plans like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Yeah…we’re getting somewhere.