Page 12 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

Willa

I may not have said it when I should’ve, but here it is, plain as day:

I missed you every second I was gone.

Even when I didn’t know how to come home…you were home.”

-Tate

I t’s Friday night in Wisteria Cove, which means it’s outdoor movie night on the green in the town square.

The air smells like kettle corn, crisp apples, and cinnamon.

String lights stretch overhead, twinkling like tiny stars between the oaks.

A crowd has gathered, spilling onto picnic blankets and folding chairs, bundled in scarves and sipping hot spiced cider.

Children dart through the grass, shrieking with laughter while candle lit lanterns flicker around the wisteria that grows around the town pergola.

Our small-town traditions that bring us all together are something I look forward to.

I keep looking for Tate but haven’t seen him yet.

I will admit that I’m looking, and I can’t get him off my mind.

I keep telling myself that it’s just because we’ve been roped into the fall festival planning—which was mostly already planned.

It’s just my mom’s way of getting Tate and me into getting together and talking.

She’s always had a soft spot for Tate and hates that we’re not getting along.

But are we not? I mean, I saw a hint of old Tate, and I miss him.

But I can’t trust him. He has too much power over my heart.

And there he is. Tate Holloway. Looking…

well, like a dream. He’s in a faded henley rolled at the sleeves, jeans worn and fitting him like a glove, and his usual well-worn Red Sox ball cap shoved low.

I wonder if it’s the same ball cap he used to wear when he and his dad would watch games together.

That was one of their things they did together; they rarely ever missed a game.

Whether it was at Fenway or on TV. If they were out at sea, they’d try to listen or call in for updates.

His smile is easy tonight, his eyes crinkling as he swings Junie Bennett into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She’s shouting, “Aye aye, captain!” and he spins her like a pirate’s wheel, her curly hair catching the golden glow of the lights.

God help me, my heart stutters.

Beside me, Ivy lets out a low whistle. “Are your ovaries exploding right now? Because I think mine just did.”

I snort, but I don’t look away.

He’s crouched low now, and Junie’s showing him some plastic pirate coins she’s found in the grass. He listens and laughs when she launches into a full story about how she’s discovered buried treasure. He asks her questions and listens intently to her answers.

And for a ridiculous moment, I wonder if he wants a family of his own. We never talked about that. We were young and just getting started in life when he up and left.

Then the thought hits me sideways, unexpected and sharp. The idea of him like this… but with someone else. Some other woman leaning her head on his shoulder, laughing at Junie’s antics. I blink and look away quickly, heat blooming in my cheeks.

“Ivy,” I mutter under my breath, “is it bad that the thought of him doing this with someone else makes me feel…feral?”

Her laugh is immediate and delighted. “Bad? No, that’s just the Maren gene kicking in. We’re professionally feral.”

I elbow her, and we both dissolve into giggles just as Junie runs past us, wielding her plastic sword and dragging Tate behind her.

“That man,” Ivy says, shaking her head, “he’s dangerously hot. Too bad he doesn’t have a brother.”

I snort. “Where’s Temu this evening?”

Ivy groans, though she’s still laughing. “You’re impossible. Derek’s not…he’s not that bad. At least not all the time.”

“Wow,” I say, sipping my coffee. “Glowing endorsement. You should put that on his dating profile.”

Ivy rolls her eyes playfully, “Why are you calling him Temu?”

“Because Derek is not what you ordered,” I tell her. Earlier today he told her to go to the movie by herself because he made other plans. He constantly disappoints her and leaves her hanging.

Ivy changes the subject, “How’s the festival planning coming along? Still biting his head off at every meeting?”

“Yeah, well,” I sigh dramatically, “we’re just now at the point where I can be in the same room with him without committing murder.”

“Coexistence is the first step to co-parenting,” Ivy teases. “Even if the only child you share is this festival.”

Before I can answer, my mom appears with two cups of cider, her silver hair braided back and a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

She’s set up her “tarot card” tent just beyond the cider station tonight with candles flickering inside, velvet cushions strewn about.

Half the town will rotate through her space before the credits roll on tonight’s movie.

She hands me a cider and leans in conspiratorially. “Your heart knows before your mind catches up,” she says, tapping her temple gently.

I groan. “Speaking of…nice ambush with getting Tate and me to co-chair the festival, Mom.”

Her grin is unapologetic. “What can I say? I’m just looking out. A little shared purpose never hurt anyone.”

“Shared purpose,” I repeat flatly. “More like shared punishment.”

She clinks her cup to mine. “All part of the process, darling. Just remember, you’re your mother’s daughter. Stubborn and smart. And,” she winks, “your heart knows what it wants. Even if your mouth hasn’t figured out how to say it.”

I can’t help but laugh, even as I feel that flutter again, the one that rises whenever Tate’s near. I glance back toward him instinctively, and of course he’s watching me. Not a casual glance, either.

His gaze is warm and steady, like he’s been waiting to catch my eye all night. He tips his chin up in a silent greeting, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Ugh. Stupid gorgeous Tate. I squeeze my legs together and try to look away, but it’s really hard.

“Stop staring at him,” Ivy stage-whispers beside me.

“You stop staring at him,” I whisper back.

We both laugh again, arms linked as we sip our cider.

Around us, Wisteria Cove hums with life and charm.

This is our place, a town where everyone knows each other’s business, but also drops off soup when you’re sick and leaves flowers on your kitchen table just because.

There’s comfort in the predictability: Friday nights mean movie nights where we all catch up.

Saturday mornings mean farmer’s markets and dinner nights with friends if you’re lucky enough to get an invite.

There’s something about living here that makes the seasons feel special, like fall isn’t just a season, but an experience.

I have friends from other places, and when they visit, they say they’ve never seen anything like it.

Pumpkins line the steps of the bookstore. Candles flicker in every window. The bakery down the block is debuting its maple pecan loaf tonight, and I can already see a line forming. I’ll be grabbing one for myself to have with my tea tonight when I read in bed.

And here I am, sitting with my sister, cider warming my hands, my cheeks flushed from the cool air and, I’ll admit it: maybe from the way Tate Holloway keeps looking at me, too.

“Do you think he knows?” I murmur, watching him chase after Junie again, this time pretending to limp dramatically as she “attacks” him with her plastic sword.

“Knows what?” Ivy asks.

“That he’s…so ridiculously good looking.” I scowl.

Ivy’s grin is wicked. “Honey, I think everyone knows.”

Before I can respond, Tate catches Junie, tosses her gently into the air, and when he looks back over his shoulder, it’s right at me. Again. Like he can feel me watching. And he winks.

Damn it.

My chest tightens, and Lilith’s words echo in my mind: Your heart knows before your mind catches up.

Maybe it does. Maybe…just maybe…this town, this moment, this man, they’re all conspiring to remind me that life doesn’t have to be perfectly planned. And it doesn’t have to be so lonely.

Sometimes it’s just cider on a Friday night. Sometimes it’s your sister laughing at inside jokes beside you and your mother handing you wisdom and a mug of cider.

And sometimes it’s the realization that maybe Tate Holloway isn’t the enemy I’ve been telling myself he is.

I take another sip of cider, smile to myself, and let the thought bloom fully this time:

All right, maybe he isn’t that bad.

It’s the next evening after work, at my mom’s house, and if fall has a smell, this is it.

Warm cinnamon, brown sugar, cloves, and the buttery scent of apple crumble baking in the oven.

Her kitchen is comfortable chaos: flour dust swirling in beams of golden afternoon light, mismatched mixing bowls stacked high, and every available surface cluttered with measuring cups and spice jars.

She’s got a fall-themed playlist playing in the background, and the vibes are perfection.

And at the center of it all? The annual Maren family bake-off.

Mom’s idea of a “casual family gathering,” which everyone knows is code for cutthroat culinary combat .

“I hope you brought your A-game, Willa,” Ivy teases from across the farmhouse table, her apron dusted in flour, a smug grin on her face as she folds cinnamon sugar into her pie dough.

“Please,” I scoff, cracking eggs like a pro. “I am the reigning champion. This pumpkin bread practically makes itself at this point.”

Before Ivy can retort, the front door creaks open, and in strolls Tate Holloway, looking all-too-smug, himself, in an orange and black plaid flannel rolled to the elbows and jeans slung low on his hips and carrying a six-pack of cider under one arm.

“What’s he doing here?” I whisper ask, louder than I intend as I blow flour-dusted hair from my sweaty face.

My mom of course, claps her hands together like she’s been waiting for this moment. “Oh, didn’t I mention? Tate’s my guest judge/competitor today.”