Page 28 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

Willa

Every time I think I’ve got you figured out, you surprise me. And I love that more than I can explain.

-Tate

I don’t mean to hover by the window, wiping the same spot on the counter for at least four minutes now. My eyes dart up every few seconds like a total obsessed weirdo. Ivy would say I’m manifesting. Rowan would say I need to get laid.

But I know what this is.It’s stupid, traitorous, aching hope.

And then there he finally is, Tate Holloway.

He's standing out front in a navy Henley that’s tight across his shoulders and clings a little to the sweat at his collar.

He’s crouched in front of the old wooden bench just outside the bookstore, tool belt slung low on his hips, forehead creased in concentration as he works on the cracked leg.

I didn’t ask him to fix that. But there he is. Doing it, anyway.I push the door open, and the little bell tinkles above me like it’s announcing something far more dramatic than my entrance.

“You know,” I say, trying for light, teasing, not-too-invested, “most people knock before performing unsolicited repairs.”

Tate glances up, squints against the sunlight. There’s sawdust on his beard, and a line of sweat at his temple. His hand pauses on the screwdriver, but he doesn’t stop. “Figured you’d want it done right,” he says.

That’s it. Just like that. Like it doesn’t send a whole thing rolling through me. I don’t say anything right away, because I do want it done right. And I hate that he’s not just talking about the bench. He’s talking about us.

“You want a cider?” I offer instead. “It’s apple-ginger. From Rowan’s weird organic box.”

He nods once. Doesn’t say no. So, I duck inside and grab two bottles, palms sweating more than they should be. I tell myself it’s the humidity. I tell myself it’s not the way he looked at me like I mattered for a second.

I hand him the bottle. Our fingers graze and linger. God, he looks good. He’s built like a freaking unit in that Henley. A warm spark shoots straight up my core, and I swear the air between us dips into slow motion. He doesn’t pull away, and neither do I.

I clear my throat and look down. “I made muffins. Your favorite cinnamon ones that you like. At least I think you like them. You used to.” I glance up at him from under my lashes.

“But if you’re not hungry…”

His expression doesn’t change. But something in his shoulder’s shift, the air around us thickening as his voice dips lower. “Muffins, huh?” he says finally, the corner of his mouth tugging. Then, softer, almost a growl, “Oh, I’m definitely hungry.”

The words land low in my stomach, heat rushing through me so fast it’s dizzying. My thighs press together instinctively under the table, and I’m suddenly, achingly aware of every inch of space between us…or maybe the lack of it.

I force a shaky laugh, trying for lightness, but my pulse betrays me, hammering in my throat.

His gaze lingers, dark and steady, making it very clear he’s not talking about muffins.

Tate follows me inside, and for a few moments, all I can hear is the scuff of his boots on the old hardwood floor. I hand him a muffin on one of the mismatched bakery plates and watch as he peels back the wrapper without a word.

And that’s when I finally realize it. Something’s bothering him.

He’s quiet, and it’s not his usual silence, the kind that’s sometimes filled with stubborn brooding.

No, this one feels heavier. Like he’s carrying something too big and too bitter to put into words.

“You, okay?” I ask, trying to keep it casual.

He doesn’t look up.

I smile. “Rough day on the tree farm? Did a pinecone insult you?”

Still nothing.

He finally lifts his head, and the look in his eyes nearly steals the air out of my lungs. Something’s wrong. Really wrong. The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s about to speak, but nothing comes. He swallows instead and shakes his head just barely.

That’s when it hits me with how badly I need to fix it. Whatever it is. I hate that he’s hurting. I’d do anything right now for him not to be hurting.

Which was so not the plan when he first came back. Tate Holloway hurt me. Left me. Made me rebuild walls I didn’t even know I had the blueprints for. But right now, all I can think about is how hollow his silence feels. Like someone carved out part of him and didn’t bother putting it back.

I watch him quietly, the way his jaw ticks, his fingers tapping absently against the side of his cider bottle like he’s trying not to feel something.

He hasn’t said much in the last few minutes, just those sad smiles and half-hearted jokes. And for once, the silence between us isn’t easy. It’s thick. Raw.

So I ask softly, “Is it April?”

Tate doesn’t look at me right away. He just stares at the far bookshelf like it’s safer than my face.

Then, finally, he nods. Once. “I think…” His voice is hoarse. “I think I’ve been hoping that she’d come around. That maybe she was just angry or confused or…something.”

He swallows, and my heart clenches as I wait, not pushing, just being there .

“But that’s not going to happen,” he says, his eyes dropping to his hands. “Watching her walk through town with her new family like I don’t exist…I realized I’ve already lost her.”

His breath catches. “I mean, I probably never really had her, not in the way a kid should have their mother. But I thought that if I worked hard enough, stayed out of trouble, showed up for her… maybe she’d see me. Maybe she’d love me.”

He laughs bitterly, blinking fast. “But she doesn’t.”

I want to reach out, touch him, hold him, but I can feel how close he is to unraveling, and I don’t want to make him feel like he can’t talk to me right now. I can feel that he needs this.

“It’s like…” he continues with a whisper, “I’m mourning a mom who’s still alive.”

And just like that, I feel the depth of it and the grief he’s carried around for years with first his father, and now her. It’s an ache that doesn’t show up in loud sobs but in empty glances and tired shoulders and words he’s never said out loud.

And I hate she did this. She’s still alive, and she’s making her kid grieve her like she’s dead. I hate her for that.

“I’m sorry,” I say, because it’s the only thing I can think to say without bursting into tears myself.

He finally looks at me, and there’s something so raw and real in his gaze, I almost can’t breathe.

“Don’t be,” he says. “You and your family are the only people who never made me feel like I had to earn love.”

And just like that, I know I’m done for.

Because Tate Holloway may be broken in places, but he’s not empty. He’s not disposable. He’s everything .

And tonight? I think he finally sees it, too.

His eyes meet mine. Something flickers behind them again, softer this time.

“You don’t have to do that,” he murmurs.

“Do what?”

“Make me feel better.”

“Maybe I want to make you feel better,” I snap.

He blinks.

And suddenly the air between us is thick with something else entirely.

He sets down his muffin, steps a little closer. Just enough to make the hair on my arms stand up.

“You do?”

I swallow. I should tell him I don’t care and that I was just being polite. That I made the muffins for Remy, and that I didn’t watch the way his shirt stuck to the muscles in his back while he fixed the bench. That my hand didn’t tingle where it brushed his.

But I don’t lie. Instead, I say, “Of course I do.” And it’s the truest thing I’ve said all day.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Tate steps in, closing the space between us until the air feels charged, humming.

His hand lifts slowly, hesitantly, like he’s about to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear…

or cup my cheek, thumb grazing the corner of my mouth.

My breath catches, my chest tight, waiting.

But just as his fingers hover close enough that I can feel their heat, the bell above the door jingles. We both startle, the sound sharp in the quiet. Tate’s hand falls back immediately, curling into a fist at his side, like he’s caught himself too close to a line he wasn’t ready to cross.

I watch him step back, putting space between us again, though the charged air lingers. My skin still tingles with the ghost of the touch that never came.

“I swear to the moon and stars, if one more person tells me to smile more…” Ivy bursts through the door, her braid unraveling in frizz, cheeks flushed with the brisk air. She drops her oversized bag with a dramatic sigh that rattles the bell above the door.

“Uh oh,” I say, leaning over a stack of new romance releases. “Let me guess, rough day?”

“I need coffee. Buckets of it. Maybe a vat of it I can swim in.” She kicks off one shoe, then the other, glaring at them like they personally offended her. “And definitely not in these ridiculous heels ever again. Whose idea was this? Certainly not mine.”

I chuckle. “The shoes or the smile?”

“Both,” she groans, flopping onto the stool behind the counter. “Honestly, I think I’m meant to go barefoot through life and just talk to goats.”

Tate glances up from where he’s still nursing his cider and what’s left of his muffin. “That bad?”

Ivy rounds on both of us like we’re part of the problem.

“Do you want to know what your mother did?” she says with a look of relief mixed with disappointment.

“What?” I ask, afraid of the answer.

“She made my life miserable for days,” she says with defeat.

Tate shifts on the stool beside the counter, expression unreadable again. A flicker of anger passes through his eyes, but he smothers it and focuses on what Ivy’s saying.

“And then,” Ivy adds, pointing dramatically at herself like a prosecutor before the jury, “guess who got fired this morning?”

I blink with disbelief. “What?”

“Yep. Fired. After dealing with the rudest client, overpriced houses, and coordinating someone’s freaking Botox appointment. Apparently, April told the agent that she couldn’t trust a Maren.”

“Oh hell no,” I snap, straightening up. “She what? ”