Page 25 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

Willa

The truth is, I still talk about you like you’re mine.

I catch myself…

and then I realize I need you to be mine again.

-Tate

I t’s so peaceful in the shop that it makes you want to stay forever.

The bell above the door jingles softly each time the fall wind nudges it, and the scent of cinnamon and old books drifts in lazy waves from the candles I lit an hour ago.

Rowan’s behind the apothecary display shelf, restocking bath soaks and humming to herself.

I’m restocking the front table with fall favorites, witchy reads, and cozy small-town romances when the door opens again.

And just like that, the atmosphere shifts.

Randy and April and their two kids barrel in like a hurricane.

The kids scatter immediately, one darting toward the puzzle shelf, one climbing onto the reading nook bench with muddy boots, the littlest grabbing for the stack of free bookmarks near the register like they’re party favors.

My jaw tightens. “Hey there,” I say, forcing a smile as I come around the table. “Let me know if you need help finding anything.”

April doesn’t acknowledge me. She strolls around like she owns the place, oversized sunglasses pushed up on her head, pumpkin spice latte in hand bearing a logo from a chain coffee shop on the edge of town.

Randy’s trailing behind, already swiping on his phone like he’s doing something important.

He mutters, “Kids, don’t break anything,” but never looks up.

The oldest child, probably nine or ten, immediately starts unzipping every single pencil pouch on the novelty shelf.

The youngest, who looks around seven or eight, is now aggressively spinning the book carousel.

I glance at Rowan, who meets my gaze with a quiet oh hell no expression and slowly steps around to shut it down with a scary look and hands on her hips.

April walks over to the counter, not to buy anything, of course, but to lean against it and scroll through her phone while sipping her drink.

I clear my throat and step over to the table her youngest just knocked half a display off of. I crouch to gather up the scattered books.

“So,” April finally says flatly, not looking up from her phone. “Didn’t know you and your family were still around.”

I smile with my teeth but not my eyes. “Yep. Still here.”

“Hmm.” Her tone makes it sound like a personal failure.

The eldest kid walks by, drops one of our shop pencils on the floor without noticing, then grabs a free water cup from the dispenser we keep near the door and spills half of it on the doormat. He walks away. Doesn’t even blink.

I grab a towel from behind the counter and mop it up, one hand clenched around the fabric like it might keep me from screaming.

April still does nothing.

Randy’s wandered to the back now, flipping through a thriller novel he’s definitely not going to buy. He turns a page loudly and sighs.

Rowan walks over to the fall display and steps into view beside me, eyebrows raised in solidarity. She’s got her hands clasped in front of her like she’s actively resisting the urge to hex someone.

The smallest kid now has a bookmark in her mouth and attempts to put it back on the shelf. Gross.

I bite my lip.

April finally glances up at the kids. “Randy,” she calls, her voice sharp and flat. “We’re leaving soon.”

No one responds. No one stops. Fifteen more minutes of pure chaos. Fifteen minutes of grabbing bookmarks off the floor, putting tea tins back on shelves, trying to gently stop a kid from climbing onto a display table without sounding like a villain in my own bookstore .

Fifteen minutes of April pretending not to notice the havoc, of Randy muttering to himself and putting creases in book spines. If I had my way he’d go straight to hell for that one. What kind of animal does that?

When she finally decides it’s time to go, April rests her sunglasses back onto her nose, spins on a heel, and says, “Let’s go.”

Randy groans and shuffles forward. The kids follow, one of them kicking over the basket of rolled-up reading maps on the way out.

I don’t say a word.

I just bend down and start picking them up, one by one.

April pauses at the door and looks back at me. The glare is subtle, but there’s something in it. Like she wants me to know she saw the mess and doesn’t care. Like the whole thing amused her.

They leave without buying a single thing. Didn’t even say thank you for the free water. Just left the half-empty cups everywhere.

The bell jingles as the door swings shut.

Silence again.

Rowan exhales dramatically and flops against the counter like she just survived a battle.

“What just happened,” she says flatly, “was a crime.”

I laugh, but it’s hollow. “You think the ghost of Wisteria Cove could haunt them a little?”

“Oh, she’s already brewing something,” Rowan mutters, grabbing the broom. “You good?”

“Yeah.” I sweep a handful of bookmarks back into their basket, picking up the soggy one and putting it in the trash. “Just tired.”

“You’re too nice, you know that?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly.”

I give her a look.

She sighs. “You shouldn’t have to put up with that in your own shop.”

I don’t say anything, because if I do, I might say something I’ll regret.

Like how I saw April watching me while I cleaned up after her kids.

Or how I swear there was a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes.

I know that kind of silent cruelty too well.

I saw her do that to Tate for years. And it got worse after our dads went missing.

I just keep working. Because that’s what I do.

Rowan steps over and rests a hand on my arm. “You want me to ward the doorway with salt, rosemary, and lavender?”

I crack a real smile this time. “Tempting.”

She grins. “One day, people are gonna understand this place isn’t just some cozy Instagram backdrop. This shop means something. And you? You’re the reason it runs. You make it magic.”

I glance around at the soft lamplight glowing over shelves, the candle still flickering at the register, the little jar of fresh mums by the scone samples.

Yeah. This place does mean something. Even if people like April don’t see it. Even if they never will.

“Thanks, Row,” I whisper.

She nods, stepping back and grabbing the now slightly soggy “Autumn Staff Picks” sign. “Let’s make this look cute again.”

I grab the cinnamon broom hanging on the wall and sweep up the muddy bootprints with one long exhale.

Tomorrow will be better. It always is.

The weather’s perfect in that golden, early-fall way when the sun is warm on my shoulders, the air crisp with just a whisper of cinnamon in the breeze.

Wisteria Cove glows in September and October.

Main Street is all pumpkins and dried cornstalks, little scarecrows guarding doorways, tables draped in plaid tablecloths. It should feel peaceful.

But I’m fuming. Not at my mom, who’s currently chatting with the florist about eucalyptus bundles for her to dry. Not at Ivy, who offered to cover the shop this morning so I could spend time with my mom.

But at them .

I spot them from halfway down the street.

Randy in that green fleece pullover, hands shoved in his pockets like he owns the sidewalk, walking two steps ahead like the world should keep pace.

April’s behind him, phone in one hand, gesturing like she’s recapping some dramatic episode of her life for an audience.

And their kids trail behind, looking bored, loud, and wild as ever, chewing gum and swatting at each other like no one’s watching.

They remind me of the Wormwoods from Matilda .

They pass right by Tate, who’s standing near Remy’s truck, talking to Finn and unloading wooden items that Finn makes to sell. He pauses, glances up when they pass, and for just a second, I see it.

The flicker in his expression and the way his posture shifts. I don’t miss the way he tries not to show it hurts. But I see it. Hell, I can even feel it for him from over here.

April barely even glances at him and doesn’t acknowledge him.

Randy glances at him and then off again as if he doesn’t even know him.

Nothing more. And that? That’s it. Something inside me snaps.

Because he’s right there. Solid and good and quietly trying his best. And they don’t see it.

Or worse, they do , and they ignore him anyway.

No. Absolutely not.

“Mom,” I say, setting down the eucalyptus bundle. “I’ll be right back.”

Lilith doesn’t even ask. Just watches me go with that slow, knowing nod of hers.

I stride across the sidewalk, fast and sure, because I’ve been waiting to do this for years.

“April,” I call out, sharp enough that her heels pause on the sidewalk.

She turns, one eyebrow already lifted, her mouth curling around a condescending smirk like she expected me to break. “Willa.”

Randy glances at me, then away. Of course.

“I’ve been quiet,” I say, loud enough for the town square to catch a little stillness. “I’ve been polite. But today? I’m done with polite.”

April lowers her sunglasses. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Remy shifts beside Tate and mutters something under his breath. Finn lets out a long whistle, low and drawn out. A few folks at the café table turn their heads.

“You come into my shop and let your kids tear it up,” I say, my voice steady and loud, “and you don’t say a word. You treat Tate like he’s a stranger, as if he’s nothing . Like he didn’t lose the same person you lost.”

Her face flattens. “Shut your mouth. What I do is none of your business, Willa Maren.”

“It is when you drag it through this town and when you hurt him. And it is definitely my business when you treat someone like they don’t matter.”

April’s nostrils flare, but before she can speak again, she looks past me. Her gaze locks on something, and her lips twist in a cruel snarl.

I don’t even have to turn to know what she sees. Tate. Standing behind me now. Watching. Shoulders rigid, eyes unreadable.

“We’re not friends with them, ” April practically spits, venom coating every syllable. “This is exactly why, Tate. This. This is why we can’t have a relationship. Because you’re friends with them. With her. ”

She jabs a finger toward me like I’m the reason the world turned sideways.

And that’s when Tate speaks, his voice a warning. “Mom…”

But she’s not done.

“This is why I can’t trust you,” she snaps. “You always choose everyone else over your mother. You run off, and you still practically worship him .”

He stares at her, lips parted as if he’s about to speak, but no words come.

She shakes her head. “You don’t get to be the victim here. You’re the one who walked away.”

Tate looks stricken. Like she reached in and twisted the one place still sore.

But before I can say a word, a second voice cuts through the air, calm, clear, and lethal.

“You know what, April?” my mom says and steps up beside me, sunlight glowing in the white streaks of her hair, arms crossed over her chest. “I understand grief,” she says, voice low but firm.

“I do, and I know what it’s like to lose someone and want to build a wall around yourself so nothing else can ever hurt again. ”

April flinches but doesn’t speak.

“What I don’t understand,” Lilith continues, “is how you took that grief and twisted it into something cruel. How you threw away the people who loved you most. How you looked at Tate, this good, kind, loyal kid, and decided he was the villain in your story.”

The silence is thick now. Even the kids fall still.

“Tate matters, ” Lilith says, taking a step forward. “He matters to us . To Wisteria Cove. To me. So if you can’t see that, if all you’re here to do is pick at old wounds and cash out what you think you’re owed, then do us all a favor.”

She tilts her head slightly. “Go back to Florida.”

April’s face goes pale.

Lilith’s voice softens, not gentle, but final. “You sell your house, get your money, and then you leave. But if you’re not going to treat him right, or put in any effort, then leave him alone. He deserves better.”

April doesn’t say a word. She pivots on her heel and walks away, calling for her kids. Randy follows, face unreadable.

And just like that, the storm moves on.

My mom lays a hand on Tate’s arm and goes back to her table, giving him a minute.

I turn toward Tate. His eyes are locked on the sidewalk, jaw tight. He looks like he’s holding it all in by sheer will.

I touch his hand, gentle. “Hey.” He lifts his gaze to mine. And I see it there. The grief and hurt. But also, gratitude. Relief. The kind of relief when someone finally sees you.

“I didn’t need you guys to do that,” he murmurs.

“I know,” I whisper. “But we did it anyway. It’s what we do for the people that we care about.”

He lets out a slow breath.

Then he smiles. Just a little.

And somehow, it feels like everything is going to be all right.