Page 23 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

Willa

When I left, I told myself you were better off without me.

But that was a lie.

Because I’m not better off without you, Willa.

I’m nothing without you.

-Tate

T he light hurts. Even with the curtains drawn and my quilt tucked up to my chin, the sliver of morning sun slicing through the curtains over the window feels like a blade straight to my skull.

Cobweb’s curled up beside me, purring like she’s perfectly pleased with the world while my head is spinning.

I try to shift, but the motion sends a fresh wave of nausea and pain crashing over me.

Damn it. Not today. There’s too much to do. Book inventory, new display tables to set up, Rowan is working in her garden today, and Ivy’s busy with her first day as an assistant to her real estate agent, so it’s just me.

I force my eyes open. Then I hear the front door open downstairs. A pause. A long beat of silence. Then footsteps. Heavy and familiar. Tate. The creak of the floorboards as he crosses the shop. A faint click of the light switch.

Then his voice, low and steady, floating up. “Willa?”

I wince and try to sit up. “Up here,” I manage, though it barely comes out above a whisper.

I hear him come up the ladder slowly. It groans under his weight, and when he reaches the top, his eyes land on me instantly.

No teasing, or smirking. Just concern.“You’re still in bed,” he says softly, moving to the side of the room.

“Lilith gave me the key and asked me to check on you. Someone called her and told her you weren’t open yet. ”

I try to brush it off. “Just a migraine. I get them sometimes. It’ll pass.”

“Doesn’t look like it’s passing.” He crouches beside the bed, eyes scanning my face like he’s cataloging the damage.“You look like someone hit you with a freight train.”

“Thanks,” I croak.

He smiles, just barely. “Beautiful freight train.”

His hand comes up, rough and cool against my overheated skin, his thumb brushing lightly along my cheekbone. The touch is soft, careful, like he’s afraid I might break apart under his fingers. The coolness soothes some of the pounding heat in my head, easing the edge of the nausea.

I lean into it before I can stop myself, the simple comfort undoing me in ways I don’t have the strength to fight.

I try to sit up straighter, but the effort sends another jolt of pain ripping through my skull, and I suck in a sharp breath. His hand steadies me instantly, thumb stroking once more, steady and grounding.

Tate frowns, the crease between his brows deepening. “That’s it. Stay in bed.”

“I’m fine. I just need?—”

But before I can finish, he’s already on his feet, moving with quiet efficiency.

He crosses the room, grabs the orange prescription bottle from my nightstand, and shakes two pills into his palm after a brief study of the label.

Then he pours a glass of water from the carafe by the bed and sets it gently in my hands.

“Here,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Take these.”

I swallow them obediently, the cool water soothing my raw throat. When I hand the glass back, his fingers brush mine, steady, grounding, unshakably calm in contrast to the storm pounding in my skull.

He eases me back against the pillows, tugging the blanket up over my shoulders with a tenderness that steals my breath. “Now sleep,” he murmurs, his voice low and sure. “I’ll be right here.”

“But the store?—”

“Will survive one day without you.” He lowers his voice. “Willa…I’ve never seen you take a break. Not once since I’ve been back.”

“I can do this by myself,” I whisper, defensive even as my voice trembles.

His eyes soften. “But that doesn’t mean you have to.”

I look away, throat tight. “It’s just easier when I do it.”

He crouches down again. “Then let me be the one helping you handle it. Just today.”

I don’t say yes. But I don’t argue again, either.

He squeezes my hand gently, then brushes a thumb along my wrist before standing. “Sleep. I’ve got it.”

And somehow, I believe him, and I drift off again.

Time passes in strange little stretches…ten minutes here, half an hour there, never long enough for a full dream, but just long enough to forget where I am and drift off.

The next time I surface, Cobweb is snuggled under my chin, and the faint smell of coffee drifts up.

There’s laughter. Tate’s voice. Deep and smooth, saying something about soup and how ridiculous any book is with a title longer than ten words.

Rowan laughs. “You’re ridiculous. And that’s not how alphabetizing works.”

“Oh? Then why does The Mysterious Midwife’s Magical Moonlight Misadventures belong under ‘M’?”

More laughter. Mugs clinking. Footsteps, chatter, movement.

I can picture them downstairs, Tate behind the counter, probably making a mess of the coffee station. Rowan reorganizing the entire store like she always does. Ivy popped in, fresh-faced and anxious from her first day as a real estate agent’s assistant for her lunch break.

“I wore heels,” she says through a mouthful of what sounds like a sandwich. “They said business casual but didn’t warn me about three flights of stairs and a listing with a rooster that apparently comes with the house and lives in the kitchen.”

“Oh my god.” Rowan cackles. “A real rooster?”

“Yeah, apparently his name is Harvey.” She adds, “And he's a really rude rooster.”

“Did it wear a little hat?” Tate asks.

I smile, eyes still closed, and let the sounds wash over me. They’re holding it down for me. And I’m not panicking about it.

I wake again to the soft creak of the door. Tate slips in, quieter this time, a tray in his hands. He’s carrying tea, soup, and toast.

He sets it down on my nightstand and crouches again. “Still alive?”

“Barely.”

“You look better.”

“Liar.”

He grins. “Well, Cobweb looks rested and well-fed, so at least one of you’s thriving.”

I glance down at the kitten now sprawled across the blankets like she owns the bed. She blinks at me, yawn-purring.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Little after one. Ivy is having her big real estate assistant debut. Rowan’s rearranging the tea shelf. I made dozens of sales, and it was to tourists who said to tell you they will be back to get an autograph.”

I laugh, “That’s weird.”

“Nope. You’re an icon around here.”

Despite everything, I laugh. It hurts, but it’s worth it.

He watches me, expression soft.“You worried me this morning.”

“I’m fine,” I insist.

“You don’t have to be,” he says and then adds. “Not all the time.”

I look at him, this man who showed up before I asked, stayed when I tried to push him away, and somehow knew exactly what I needed.

“You’re kind of relentless,” I whisper.

He shrugs. “Only with you.”

That should scare me. But right now? It just…doesn’t. It feels good. It feels like maybe I don’t have to be so lonely anymore.

I’m curled up in the big armchair by the front window, blanket over my lap, hair still damp from my shower.

I probably look tired, because I am, but I’m taking it slow.

I wanted to get up and move around, maybe shelve some books, but Tate wouldn’t stop hovering.

He tried to get me to stay in bed. Like that was going to happen.

Rowan finally convinced me to at least stay put in the chair.

Tate’s behind the counter unpacking a delivery box, sorting books into neat stacks like it’s some kind of delicate surgery. He thinks I don’t notice, but his eyes keep flicking toward me every few minutes. And each time he looks, there’s this…softness. Like I’m a page he’s memorizing.

The bell over the door jingles, and in breezes Donna like the store is her stage and she’s the main act.

“I’m here to sign more books,” she announces, brandishing a wrapped copy like it’s a trophy.

She leans toward Tate and stage-whispers, “And yes, before you ask, it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. Again.”

I smile, amused despite myself. “Used the good pen?”

“Obviously.” She drops into the chair across from me like she’s settling in for a show.

Then she swivels toward Tate, her eyes sparkling like she’s about to light a match. “And how’s the boat, Tate?”

Here we go.

“Still getting sold,” he says.

“And the house?”

“Same.”

She narrows her eyes, all mock-detective. “I heard you’re going to work for my son at the tree farm.”

The words hit me sideways. I blink, turning sharply toward Tate. “Wait—you are?”

He shifts a little under the weight of my stare, but he doesn’t deny it.

For a moment, I can’t find my voice. The thought barrels through me that he’s not leaving. Not disappearing out to sea for months at a time. No more vanishing into storms and silence. He’ll be here in Wisteria Cove. Close enough that I could see him every day if I wanted to.

My stomach twists. Relief, sharp and sweet, rushes in first. Then something deeper, warmer, that I shove down before it can take root.

“You didn’t think to mention this?” I manage, my voice lighter than I feel, though my heart is thudding wildly.

His eyes meet mine, steady, unreadable, and for a long beat I just…look at him. At the man who’s haunted my memories for years, now tethering himself to this town.

“What are you going to do about the boat and house?” she asks, too casually. “You gonna fight it? Buy it?”

I snort into my tea, because this is what Donna does, interrogates people with a smile and somehow gets away with it.

Before he can answer, the front door swings open again. And the whole air in the store changes. I don’t have to look at Tate to know he feels it too; his posture tightens like a rope pulled taut.

April Holloway—or whatever her new last name is. Tate’s mother. And she’s not alone. Randy is right behind her, along with two kids I’ve never seen before.

They all bring in the cold with them.

“Surprise,” April singsongs. “Thought we’d come check the house and boat before everything is sold.”

“Why didn’t you call, Mom?” Tate asks, voice even.

“It’s fine,” she says with a shrug. “We’re going to stay at the house for a bit. Used the spare key.”

My spine stiffens. Used his spare key? Without asking? My hand tightens around my mug.

“It’s your house,” he says flatly.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” she waves him off. “It’s just for a few days. We’re already unpacked.”

Randy chimes in, cheerful in that fake way that makes my skin crawl. “We even stocked the fridge. Real homey now. You don’t have to live like a bachelor anymore.”

Tate’s jaw works, but his hands stay hidden behind the counter. I can tell he’s holding himself together with every ounce of willpower.

“This place is quaint,” Randy adds, scanning the room.

“It’s Willa’s,” Tate says, steady as stone.

April’s lip curls. “Willa? As in Willa Maren?”

The way she says my name makes something old and bitter twist in my stomach. I turn toward the window, mouth pressed tight, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

“It’s a great place,” he says, looking straight at them. “It’s a cornerstone of this town. And yes, it’s Willa’s. She built it herself. Every single customer who walks in here walks out better because of her.”

The air freezes. I don’t move. Can’t. But heat blooms across my cheeks, not from embarrassment. From pride. From the way he says it like it’s gospel.

Donna clears her throat, breaking the tension. “Well. I’ll leave you to your little family ambush.” And just like that, she’s gone, probably plotting her next book with this exact scene.

April, Randy, and the kids linger a minute before finally drifting back out into the street. The bell jingles, and the store feels lighter again.

That night, Tate doesn’t go home. He doesn’t have to tell me why. The kids took his room. His mother took his space. And the pieces of his father he has left, what little there are, are probably next.

He stretches out on the bookstore couch, Cobweb curled up on his chest like she’s appointed herself guard dog. I bring him a blanket, draping it over his legs. He looks at me like I’ve just handed him something more than fabric.

“You didn’t have to defend me,” I say quietly. “But thank you. I’m sorry about your mom. She doesn’t treat you right, Tate.”

“I know. Is it okay if I crash here tonight?”

“Of course,” I say. Then, before I can lose my nerve: “And Tate?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for all your help today. It means a lot.”

His voice is low, sure. “Anytime.”

Eventually, I climb down the ladder with two steaming mugs in my hands. Tate’s still awake, stretched out on the rug, staring at the ceiling like he’s waiting for the stars to rearrange themselves.

I set one mug down beside him and flop cross-legged onto the rug. My hoodie sleeves dangle over my hands. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

He takes the mug, nodding. “Too quiet. Weird.”

“Weird?” I laugh. “After months on a boat, you can’t handle my bookstore silence?”

“Exactly.” He sips. “Where’s the seagulls? The diesel engines? The drunk guy singing sea shanties off-key?”

I grin. “If you want, I can hum My Heart Will Go On while you fall asleep.”

He groans. “Please don’t. I still haven’t forgiven you for your Titanic phase.”

I gasp. “Excuse me, every girl our age had a Titanic phase.”

He smirks. “You cried for a week when you found out Leo smoked.”

“Shut up,” I mutter into my mug, cheeks heating. “At least I didn’t go through a puka-shell necklace phase.”

His jaw drops. “Hey. Those were cool.”

“They were so not cool,” I shoot back.

“That was one summer!” he protests, laughing now.

I grin, victorious. “One summer too many.”

We fall into easy banter like that, trading old humiliations and laughing until Cobweb stirs, glaring at us from her spot on the blanket. Tate leans back on his elbows, watching me with a lopsided smile that makes my chest warm.

“You haven’t changed,” he says. “Still bossy. Still ruthless.”

“Someone has to keep you humble,” I fire back, though my lips curve against my will.

For a while, we just sip our tea, not heavy, not complicated. Just us. Laughing, remembering, catching up. The night folds in around us, easy and light, and for the first time in a long time, it feels like nothing’s missing.