Page 17 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

I sigh. Donna has written over a hundred romance novels over the past thirty years, and many of them have featured real-life people and stories in our small town.

She brings in a lot of tourists every year.

But the funny part is that she never does social media or interviews, so no one actually knows what she looks like or who she actually is when people ask.

So when tourists flock here and see an old lady knitting on a park bench, they would never think that it’s her.

I’ve even watched her speak to tourists about her books before, and they do not know that they’re speaking to the author.

And no one in our town would dare tell on her, either.

She’s been great at keeping our town thriving.

And while this town will gossip relentlessly about each other, they won’t share important details with tourists.

Tate settles into the chair beside me, close enough that our knees brush beneath the table. That familiar scent, salt air, cedar, and something distinctly Tate, wraps around me before I can steel myself. I sneak a glance at him. He looks so at ease, leaning back in his chair like he hasn’t noticed.

Or maybe he has and is enjoying the effect.

I try to ignore how my pulse jumps when he leans forward to whisper, “Ready to eat pie with me, Willa?”

“Yes,” I mutter, though a smile tugs at my lips despite myself. “I’m always available for pie.”

“Just pie?” he teases and nudges me with his shoulder.

The warmth of his shoulder brushing mine is completely casual, completely innocent…

and yet it sends a ripple straight through me, settling somewhere low and achy.

I shouldn’t let it. I shouldn’t read into every little thing he says, every smile, every touch.

And the way he’s looking at me right now, playful, sure, but with that familiar glint in his eyes like he’s testing the line between us, makes my heart stutter.

The first pie arrives, and we set about our very serious judging duties. I keep my head down, determined to remain professional, until Tate cuts a perfect bite of cherry pie, lifts his fork, and holds it toward me.

The entire room goes silent.

A chorus of delighted gasps follows Donna’s gleeful shout: “Feed her, Tate! Feed her!”

I shoot him a warning look. “Don’t you dare.”

His grin is infuriating. “Part of the judging process,” he says smoothly, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

And because my pride has apparently gone out the window along with my common sense, I lean forward and take the bite. His eyes never leave mine as I close my lips around the fork. The pie is good, tart and sweet, but it’s nothing compared to the taste of Tate’s attention lingering on my skin.

Not even able to stand it, I let out a moan and cover my mouth. “That is divine.”

Donna hoots from the sidelines. “If that’s not chemistry, I don’t know what is!”

My mother takes all of this in as if she isn’t surprised in the least.

The people around us erupt with laughter over something that Donna and Lilith say, and more people glance over. I feel my cheeks flush deeper. But I can’t help it; a laugh bubbles up from my throat, genuine and warm. The town is eating this up. And I have to admit: so am I.

Tate leans close, his voice a low rumble meant just for me. “You gonna share that pie, or keep making me jealous?”

I blink, startled, fork halfway to my mouth. “You want a bite?”

“Mm.” His gaze locks on mine, unreadable. “I want your bite.”

Heat floods my cheeks. My fingers tighten around the fork, but before I can move, his hand comes up warm, steady, wrapping lightly around my wrist. He guides the fork the rest of the way, his eyes never leaving mine, and I can do nothing but watch as he leans in and closes his lips around the piece I’d just lifted.

My breath stutters. My heart thumps so loudly I’m sure the whole room can hear it.

He lingers just a moment, pulling back slowly, and then drags the edge of his tongue along the fork where my mouth had been seconds before. My throat goes dry. My pulse races.

For half a second, I think he’s doing it for show, hamming it up for the table, playing into the town’s relentless matchmaking. But when I glance around, no one’s watching. Everyone’s busy chatting, waiting for the next pie to be judged.

It’s just us.

And the heat sparking low in my belly tells me he knows it.

More pies arrive, and the banter continues. He critiques crusts like he’s auditioning for a baking show, and I pretend not to notice how he keeps leaning in, his shoulder brushing mine more often than seems necessary. I notice he only offers high praise and makes all the contestants blush.

I’m about to toss back a witty reply when it hits me.

This exact table.

A flash of memory, sharp and uninvited. I’m small again, maybe six or seven, sitting cross-legged on a bench, watching my parents at this very table.

Mom leaning into Dad, both of them laughing as they taste pies, fingers brushing as they passed each plate between them.

Their peaceful rhythm, their banter, the way they made it feel like love wasn’t just safe but possible.

And it sears through me, hot and sudden, because for a second, I can almost hear their laughter again. Almost see the way my dad used to wink at me across the table as he stole another bite from my mom’s plate. And I feel him in this moment, as if he is still here, although I know he isn’t.

But he’s gone. And when I glance over at my mom, she’s watching me with a small, sad smile on her face like maybe she is remembering, too.

And suddenly I’m back in my skin, heart thudding too hard, breath catching in my throat.

Yeah… this is why I can’t do this. Especially not with Tate.

Because what if I let myself sink into this, into him, into us, and then one day he’s gone, too? They don’t always come home.

What if one day I’m sitting at this same table, and there’s no one beside me, no laughter, just silence and empty chairs and a hollow ache that never quite heals? And I’m standing there where my mother is now with a sad smile on my face. No. I won’t let that happen to me.

He’s a fisherman. He leaves. That’s what they do. They leave the harbor, and sometimes they don’t come back.

I can’t go through that again. I won’t go through that again.

The laughter and clinking plates around me sound distant now, like they belong to another world, one I can’t touch, one that’s moving on while I sit here frozen, jarred by the weight of it all.

Tate says something next to me, light and teasing still, but I can’t process it.

I just nod, smile, and hope he doesn’t see the way my hands tremble when I reach for the next slice of pie.

“Everything all right, Willa?” he asks, voice softer now but still roughened by the edge of protectiveness that makes my stomach twist and flutter all at once.

My heart is pounding so loud I swear the whole town can hear it. “Fine,” I say, though I can’t quite keep the breathlessness out of my voice.

The crowd releases their collective breath as he finally sits, smirking just a little as he leans back in his chair, thoroughly pleased with himself.

I bury my face in my hands for a moment before peeking through my fingers at Tate. He just raises his fork again, cutting another perfect bite of pie.

“Don’t even think about feeding me again,” I warn.

“Oh, I’m thinking about it,” he says, his voice low, teasing, and just this side of sinful.

And just like that, I feel it again, that awful, wonderful truth tightening in my chest: I still love him.

Despite everything, I still do. I can’t turn it off, no matter how hard I try.

The contest continues, the chaos resumes, and the town watches like we’re their favorite show, which, let’s be honest, we probably are.

But all I can feel is the warmth of Tate’s shoulder brushing mine, the heat of his gaze every time I laugh, and the way my defenses crumble a little more every time he so much as smiles at me.

Damn him. Damn this town. And damn how much I secretly love every second of it.