Page 19 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

Willa

Your laugh is my favorite sound in this town.

I think it always has been.

-Tate

T he rain starts just after I lock the front door and step inside.

My mom took a trip up to New Hampshire for the night with Donna and asked me to house-sit for her.

One moment, the wind is tugging at the porch mums, and the next, it’s like the sky splits open and sheets of water come down in silvery waves, battering the windows and drumming against the roof of the old house.

Lightning flashes, illuminating the living room in ghost-light, and then thunder cracks, low and rolling.

The power flickers but holds. Barely.I wrap the knit throw tighter around my shoulders and light the last of the pillar candles on the mantle.

My mom's house is already warm and cozy in that cluttered, witchy way only she can pull off. Bundles of dried herbs hang near the windows. The wood stove clicks as it warms, and there’s a faint scent of orange peel and cloves simmering from the tea I made, which is still a little too hot to drink.

It should feel peaceful and safe.But instead, I feel unsettled and restless. I blame Tate Holloway.

Because ever since pumpkin carving night, when he made me laugh more than I have in months, and then sat beside me like he belonged there, with Junie on his shoulders and firelight in his eyes, I can’t stop thinking about him. And the possibility of there being an us.

And now, while I’m curled up in my mom’s living room in the middle of a rainstorm, the thought of him out there somewhere makes my chest ache in a way I didn't expect.

I jump a little when there’s a knock on the door.Three short raps, then one pause, then another. Like a code.

I pad across the wood floors, heart hammering for reasons I absolutely refuse to unpack right now, and open the door a few cautious inches.

Tate stands there, soaked to the bone, rain dripping from his hair and jacket.

For a heartbeat, his expression flickers, surprise lighting his eyes when he spots me standing there.

But then the corners of his mouth curve, soft and unguarded, like he can’t help himself.

He’s smiling at me, even through the storm.

“I need your help,” he says, and slowly opens his coat to reveal a small, wriggling bundle of black fur, clinging to his flannel chest.

My jaw drops. “Who is this?”

“A stowaway,” he says. “Found her down by the docks. She was shivering so badly I couldn’t ignore her, and I wanted to bring her to Lilith.”

I open the door wider. “Get in here before you get sick.”

He steps inside, gently cradling the kitten against him as I shut the door.

The house smells like cloves, cedar, and rain now, earthy and warm, and a little like Tate.

I don’t know when his presence became that familiar, but it hits me full force as he kneels in front of the fire, gently unwrapping the kitten.

She’s tiny. Soaked and shaking, with matted fur and wide green eyes that blink up at us like we’re the strangest thing she’s ever seen.

“Oh, sweetheart,” I whisper, grabbing a dry towel and crouching beside him. “You poor baby.”

Tate hands her to me with so much care it makes my throat catch. “She’s freezing,” he murmurs. “I had her wrapped up inside my shirt. Took me a while to catch her, but I couldn’t leave her out there.”

“Of course not,” I say softly, glancing up at him as I carefully pat the kitten dry. “I’m so glad you brought her here.”

His eyes meet mine, and something warm and wordless passes between us.

That’s when I notice how he looks. Really notice. Tate is drenched, water dripping from his hair, plastering the dark strands back from his forehead. His jacket clings to him, heavy with rain, and his shirt is soaked straight through, molding to every hard line of muscle underneath.

“God, you’re going to catch your death,” I say, grabbing another towel and rising to my feet. My voice comes out a little breathless. “Take that off.”

He blinks, startled. “What?”

“Your shirt.” I thrust the towel at him, heat blooming under my skin even as I force my tone to stay brisk. “You’re soaked through. Get it off before you freeze. I’ll grab one of the throws for you, and you can dry your jeans by the fire.”

For a moment he just watches me, rain still dripping from his lashes, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Then he obeys, peeling the shirt over his head in one slow, fluid motion.

And I nearly forget how to breathe.

His chest is broad, defined by years of hauling nets and ropes, every line of muscle cut and honed by hard work.

A light dusting of hair spreads across his chest and narrows into a trail that disappears beneath his waistband, a path that makes my mouth go dry.

My pulse hammers in my throat, traitorous and loud.

I toss him the throw blanket a little too quickly, trying to mask the way my hands shake. “Here. Warm up.”

He smirks faintly, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me, then drapes the blanket loosely around his shoulders. The firelight glances across his damp skin, gilding him in a way that feels unfair, like the universe is conspiring against me.

I look down at the kitten in my arms, clinging to the excuse of fussing over her so I don’t give in to the wild thought beating in my head because if I look up again, I might not be able to look away.

We sit there for a while, side by side on the rug in front of the fire, taking turns drying her off, whispering quiet encouragements like she’s a baby bird and we’re trying not to spook her.

I warm some milk in a shallow dish, and Tate digs out an old box from the pantry and lines it with one of Lilith’s worn old towels.

We don’t speak much, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s easy, actually.

Eventually, when the kitten is dry and curled up near the fire, her tiny body rising and falling with each breath, I sit back against the couch, exhaling for what feels like the first time all night.

Tate stretches out beside me, legs long and damp jeans drying by the fire.

“So,” he says softly, watching the kitten. “What would you name her?”

I glance at him, already smiling. “Cobweb.”

He blinks. “Cobweb?”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “It’s witchy and perfect.”

He grins. “It fits.”

“I mean, look at her.” I point at the scruffy little creature, now snoring softly with her paws tucked under her chin. “She’s basically one of Lilith’s spells come to life.”

Tate laughs, full and deep, the kind of sound that burrows into your chest and makes a home there. “Cobweb,” he repeats. “Okay. I can get behind that.”

“She could live at the bookstore,” I say before I even think about it. “I've always wanted a bookstore cat. Maybe she’s a familiar and has witch energy, too.”

The second the words are out, I feel something shift in the air, like I said too much. Like I gave something away.But Tate doesn’t tease me.

He just looks at me with that steady, thoughtful expression of his, and says, “I think she'd love it there.”

The fire crackles.Cobweb sighs in her sleep and burrows against me even closer.

And suddenly, I feel it in my bones, that sense that maybe this isn’t just a one-night rescue mission. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

“Do you think you’ll really stay here this time?” I bite my lip nervously as the words tumble out of me before I can chicken out.

“Yeah. I wasn’t ready before. But I want this. I want all of this,” he says as he looks around and smiles.

“I used to think I didn’t want any of this anymore, either,” I admit quietly. “The town or the bookstore. When you left, all I saw were memories, and they weren't good. Maybe they can be good now.”

Tate doesn’t interrupt me; he just waits for me to finish. Like he always has, hanging on every word like he likes what I have to say. And that is one of the things I've always loved about him. He is my person. He always wanted to hear what I had to say.

I swallow. “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like maybe I didn’t let myself want it because I was afraid of losing more than what I already had. Like my dad or…you. Again.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I get that.”

I glance at him. “You do?”

He nods. “More than you know.”

The storm picks up again, wind howling against the windows. But inside, it’s warm, safe, and steady.

I tuck my legs beneath me and rest my head against the couch cushions. “I'm glad you're back.”

He doesn’t move for a long moment. Then he leans back beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. “Me too.”

And I believe him and the quiet possibility that maybe he’s not going anywhere this time.

We sit there until the fire burns low, the storm slowly giving way to silence.

And in the soft glow of candlelight, with Cobweb curled between us and the world tucked outside, I let myself believe at least for tonight at least that I don’t have to protect myself from this.

That maybe this is the beginning of something new and real this time.

The fire crackles, low and golden, and the wind howls against the windows like some old ghost is trying to get in.

For a long time, neither of us speaks. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because the quiet feels like its own kind of truth.

Then, finally, he exhales, slow and heavy. “She’s selling everything,” he says, his voice low and rough.

I glance over. “Your mom?”

He nods, staring into the fire like it might offer some kind of answer he hasn’t been able to find on his own. “The house. The boat. All of it.”

“Oh.” My chest tightens. “Tate, I’m so?—”

“She told me over the phone like she was giving me a weather report.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, fingers dragging through his hair, jaw tight. “She didn’t even ask if I wanted it. Just said she was calling the realtor.”

There’s a long beat where the only sound is the storm and Cobweb’s soft purring.

I reach out instinctively, resting a hand on his forearm.His eyes flick to mine, surprised, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and I mean it in more ways than one.