Page 22 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

I glance back out toward the main room, where Willa’s laughing at something Finn said, and Junie’s showing Ivy her glittery witch hat.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m starting to figure that out.”

It’s late now. The moon hangs low and sleepy through the windowpanes, and the streets of Wisteria Cove are empty except for the glow of porch lights and streetlamps and the rustle of the leaves.

The bookstore is quiet, and the crowd’s long gone, and I’m sweeping up confetti stars from a toddler’s sparkly disaster while Willa straightens books behind the counter. Her cardigan’s hanging off one shoulder now, and she’s humming some soft melody that I don’t recognize.

I don’t want to leave. So, I just help her clean up.

She glances up. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“I’d rather be here than anywhere else tonight.” I keep sweeping.

She laughs, low and tired and real. It lands in the center of my chest. She’s finally letting me in.

I carry the bag of trash out back, where the air bites cooler than before. When I return, she’s wiping down the tables, hair falling into her face. She pushes it back with her wrist, not realizing there’s whipped cream on her sleeve.

“You’ve got—” I gesture. “Frosting? Cream? Something sticky and mysterious?”

She groans, inspecting her arm. “Fantastic. The hazard of the job.”

“It’s a good look on you,” I say before I can stop myself.

Her eyes flick up to mine. She doesn't look away.

There’s something different in her now, some invisible wall lowered an inch. Still guarded, but softer around the edges.

“I think the window by the front door is loose,” she murmurs, walking past me toward the entrance.

“Which one?”

“That one,” she points, “It rattles when it’s windy. I think the latch is off.”

I follow her to the front, where the old glass pane shivers faintly in its frame as the wind whispers down Main Street.

I kneel beside it and inspect the hardware. One screw has come loose. Easy fix, if I had my drill.

She disappears behind the counter and returns with one. Of course, she has tools. She’s running this place and running it well. I’m impressed with how organized and methodical she is with this place and with everything she does.

When I crouch to fix it, she leans down beside me to watch. Close. Too close.

Her shoulder brushes mine, and my breath gets shallow. The scent of cinnamon and old paper clings to her sweater. Her hand lands lightly on the edge of the frame, fingers just inches from mine.

“How do you always know how to fix things?” she asks quietly.

I tighten the screw, heart pounding. “I don’t. I just try.”

She’s watching me. Like she’s trying to figure me out.

“I remember when your dad would always take the time to show you how to fix things,” she says softly. “Once he even had me help. I was maybe ten? He let me hold the flashlight and told me I had steady hands.”

I look up. She’s smiling at the memory, but her eyes are wet around the corners.

“I miss them both,” she admits, voice raw. “I miss knowing someone always had the answers.”

“I know,” I say, my throat catching as I swallow. “I miss them too.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, so quietly I almost miss it. “It hurt so much, watching my mom try to stay strong after he was gone. Like…she was folding in on herself. Grieving and smiling at the same time. Like she didn’t want us to see her fall apart.”

I straighten up. We’re still too close. Her shoulder touches my chest now. She doesn’t move.

“Sometimes I think that’s why I love fiction books so much,” she says. “They’re safe pain. You feel it, but you know it’s not real. You know the ending’s coming. You know someone wrote it, and it’s not real pain, not usually, anyway.”

“But real life?” I say.

She nods. “That hurts in a way that doesn’t always get wrapped up.”

God, I want to kiss her. I’ve missed her so much.

And she’s finally letting me see her. All of her.

Not the careful shop owner or the stubborn Maren sister, but the woman underneath who’s been carrying grief like a backpack full of bricks and still shows up every day with a book in hand and hope on her face.

Still pours her heart out to this community and is the one who includes and loves everyone.

“I wish I could take all the pain away, Willa.”

She looks at me then. Fully. And it’s not guarded this time.

“I used to think you were the storm,” she whispers. “But maybe instead, you’re the anchor.”

“What do you mean?” I ask softly, equally intrigued and afraid of her answer.

“You hurt me by leaving. But maybe you were always meant to come back.”

My throat tightens. “You want the truth?”

She nods.

“I couldn’t stay away if I tried,” I say.

“Not just because I grew up here. Not just because the docks are familiar or because fishing is all I really know. But because of you. Because every time I try to walk away from this town, it pulls me back with your voice, or your laugh, or the way you belong. I want to belong.”

Her breath catches. “Tate…”

We’re so close I can feel her heartbeat through her sweater. I could lean forward, just a few inches, and finally know what her lips taste like when she’s not guarding them behind a wall of stubbornness.

She doesn’t move. I don’t either. But the tension is electric, thick, dizzying.

“You know,” Lilith calls from the back room, “I think you both forgot I was still here.”

We both whip around.

She stands in the doorway and grins from ear to ear as she shrugs on her jacket.

Willa groans and hides her face in my chest for half a second. I catch her waist instinctively, and her body fits mine like it’s always meant to be there.“Mom, seriously?”

Lilith shrugs. “Just letting you know I was here before you all start kissing or whatever. I’ll see myself out. So, I’m just going to head home. Love you! Night!”

She disappears out the front door with a small wave.

Willa looks up at me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

“Sorry,” she murmurs. “She thinks she’s the town’s own fairy godmother the way she’s playing this matchmaker game hard.”

I grin. “She really is.”

We finish cleaning in silence, but it’s not awkward. It feels right.

She flicks off the last light except the fairy lights in the front window, and I carry the last trash bag out back while she finishes up.

When I come back in, she’s curled up in one of the reading chairs with a blanket around her shoulders, a book open on her lap.

“Sit,” she says softly, patting the chair next to her.

I do.

And for a long while, we just sit there, legs stretched out, the hum of late-night stillness pressing in.

“I’m scared,” she finally says.

“Of what?”

She glances at me. “Of trying again. Of trusting.”

I reach over, brush her pinky with mine. “This time I promise it’s going to be okay.”

And she nods.Not because she fully believes it yet.But because maybe…she wants to.