Page 16 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

Willa

Someone once told me forgiveness isn’t earned, it’s given.

But if it can be earned, I’ll spend every day showing you.

-Tate

E very morning, like clockwork, I’ve been looking forward to unlocking the front shop door and flipping the open sign. Not for the first hot coffee or even the routine comfort of the place. But because I know what will wait just beside the flower box, tucked away. Another message in a bottle.

I try to tell myself I don’t care. But my fingers always tremble when I pull the cork, my breath hitching as I unroll the scroll inside.

Today’s message? “Someone once told me forgiveness isn’t earned, it’s given. But if it can be earned, I’ll spend every day showing you.”

The words hit me right in the chest. Infuriating, tender and perfect. And far more effective than I’m willing to admit to myself. Damn it. He knows I love romantic gestures. He’s playing right to my heart. And I’m falling for it, hook, line, and sinker.

I tuck the bottle behind the counter with the others, a whole little collection now, lined up like glass soldiers guarding memories I swore I wouldn’t linger on. I take a deep breath, willing my heart to slow down.

Then the bell jingles, and he’s here. Right on cue.

Tate Holloway, in all his broody fisherman glory.

His presence stirs the air, draws gazes, quickens my pulse.

He’s different now, quieter, softer somehow.

The grief of losing his father still clings to him, tucked in the corners of his smile, heavy in the way his shoulders set when he thinks no one’s watching.

But I don’t miss it. It’s impossible not to feel it.

I know how hard it is to carry the grief of losing a parent.

It’s not a club you want to be a part of. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

Donna pauses her knitting. Lilith lifts her mug in silent commentary, a familiar, knowing smirk spreading across her face.

Donna opens the notebook that she carries and scribbles a few things in it.

Probably fodder for a future book. The bookstore practically hums with excited whispers whenever he’s here.

Everyone is watching and enjoying this. Conversations slow, and customers pause and glance over.

“Morning, Willa,” he says, his voice that warm, rough-edged tone that slides under my skin no matter how I try to harden myself against it.

His eyes catch mine for just a second, a flicker of vulnerability in their depths, a glimpse of something real and raw, and I feel my defenses let down just a little more.

This is happening more and more every time he sends another message and comes around.

He leans on the counter, easy, familiar, the edge of his mouth curving into that damn dimpled smile I’ve sworn I’m immune to. “Usual?”

“Obviously,” I mutter, already wrapping his sandwich and pouring his black coffee, my hands moving on autopilot while my heart beats far too fast.

Every day, he shows up, and he smiles that patient smile. Every day, he leaves another bottle. And he’s been doing this so often that he’s even become a regular around here.

Today, though, something changes. It feels different.

Just as I hand over Tate’s order, setting his plate down in front of him, his eyes catch mine for the briefest second.

My chest tightens, but I force myself to keep moving, collecting empty mugs and plates from the next table.

It’s busy enough that I can lose myself in the rhythm of the work, let my pulse settle.

I balance the stack carefully in my hands and make my way back toward the counter.

Halfway across the room, though, I’m cut off by a man in a light blue polo and cargo pants who swivels in his chair, blocking my path.

He flashes me a grin that makes my skin prickle.

“Hey, darlin’,” he drawls, southern accent thick enough to drip. “Got a number to go with that smile?”

I shift the plates in my hands, keeping my tone polite but firm. “I’m flattered, but no. I’ve got a shop to run.”

He leans closer, undeterred. “Come on now. It’s just dinner.” His eyes flick down, lingering far too long before crawling back up to meet mine.

My shoulders stiffen. “I’m not available. But the diner is?—”

“Not interested in restaurants,” he cuts me off, smirking. “I’d rather spend my evening with you.”

I try to sidestep him, my arms are still full, but he shifts with me, too close, invading my space. “You locals always this hard to crack? Bet you’re sweeter once you loosen up.”

I force a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Sir, I really need to get back to work.”

And then, just as I shift my weight to move past, he reaches out, hand lifting toward my hair. My stomach twists. My hands are full. I can’t even brush him away?—

But I don’t have to.

Tate is there in an instant. Silent, sudden, like he’s been watching the whole time. His fingers close around the man’s wrist before it can reach me, grip unyielding.

“Don’t,” Tate says, his voice low and steady. “You don’t put your hands on people without their consent.”

The whole shop seems to still. The man startles, blinking up at Tate, who towers over him with a calm so sharp it feels dangerous. Tate doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The quiet authority in it vibrates straight through the air, leaving no room for argument.

I suck in a breath, my heart hammering. Relief, gratitude, something else I can’t name, all of it knots in my chest as I watch the tourist yank his hand back, muttering something under his breath before sinking into his chair.

Tate doesn’t look at him again. His gaze finds me, checking me over like he’s making sure I’m intact.

And damn him, it’s hot. Way hotter than it has any right to be.

Donna’s smirk widens as she sips her coffee, eyes twinkling with delight. I give it about fifteen minutes before the entire town knows about this incident. In fact, Donna and Lilith are practically narrating this incident unfolding like Samuel L. Jackson.

“Everything okay here?” he asks, his voice gentler but still thick with protectiveness.

My heart hammers so loudly I’m surprised no one can hear it. “It’s fine,” I whisper, though my breathless voice betrays just how not fine I am. He’s still got his arm on mine.

The tourist gets up and retreats quickly, mumbling an apology as he goes. As soon as the door closes behind him, the tension breaks like a snapped fishing line.

Donna lets out a bark of laughter from the pastry case. “Looks like Captain Broody Pants has staked his claim!”

Lilith claps, practically glowing. “I love a man who defends his woman!”

I shoot them a look that’s supposed to be a glare but lacks any real heat. They’re loving this, eating it up, and honestly…maybe part of me is, too.

But I’m also frustrated. I’m independent, and I don’t need someone interfering with my life. I don’t need a protector, and I don’t need him.

When Tate steps just a little closer, the scent of salt air and cedar envelops me, grounding and dizzying all at once. His dimple flashes again as his gaze lingers on mine, warm and intimate, like it’s just the two of us in this room full of prying eyes.

And for a moment, it feels good. Too good. And I forget that I’m supposed to be mad at him.

I want to roll my eyes at him, shove him away, pretend I’m unmoved, but I’m not.

My heart twists, my breath catches, and somewhere deep down, I know exactly what this means.

I still care. I hate that I care. Hate that I like the way he stepped in front of me.

Hate how he brushes his fingers lightly across mine as he picks up his sandwich, a featherlight touch that lingers far longer than it should.

But I do like it. I think I more than like it. I want it.

I watch him as he returns to his usual seat at the counter, sunlight sliding over his hair. He doesn’t look away. He meets my gaze across the bookstore, his smile soft but steady, full of quiet determination.

Outside, a pair of tourists peek in the window, curiosity written all over their faces. Wisteria Cove’s favorite soap opera continues, and the audience is absolutely captivated.

I pretend to return to work, but my gaze drifts back to him, over and over, my thoughts spinning. Every bottle, every message, every quiet, broody smile, it’s working. It’s chipping away at the walls I thought I’d built strong enough to keep him out.

And when I finally let my lips curl into the smallest smile, his answering grin is devastating.

My heart stutters and swells all at once, and all I can think is: I am in trouble.

God help me, so much trouble.

A few days later, the community center is utter chaos, which, honestly, feels exactly right for Wisteria Cove’s Annual Pie Baking Contest. The aroma of every type of pie you can imagine fills the air.

Kids dart between tables, playing games and having fun.

Wisteria Cove takes this event very seriously and people work hard all year to perfect the best pie to share and win the contest. Donna’s already barking orders at volunteers with a wooden spoon in hand like it’s a microphone.

And somehow, despite my very vocal protests, Tate and I have been roped into this as well.

Because of course we have. Donna and my mom said it’s part of our committee duties. Whatever. I don’t remember my mom ever having to do this when she was in charge. They’re just setting us up again, and I’ve come to expect it now. They’re all relentless.

The whole town seems thrilled about it, naturally. I’m pretty sure they consider the main event to be not the pies, but the spectacle of me sitting next to Tate Holloway at a table for two solid hours.

“Perfect pairing!” Donna declares with a wink that makes me stare at her skeptically.

“Donna, what book are you working on right now?”

She grins even bigger. “Oh, just a small town second chance romance about a broody fisherman and a smitten bookstore owner.”