Page 29 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

Tate flinches a little, like my tone caught him off guard.

“She said I was ‘unstable’ and ‘too close to the situation,’” Ivy says, using air quotes so violently she nearly knocks over the tip jar shaped like a cauldron.

“I was literally doing everything they asked. I didn’t even speak.

But apparently, just existing in the same space as their family is enough to get me blacklisted. ”

The words hit something deep in my chest. A heavy, molten wave of protectiveness unfurls inside me, hot and immediate.

This isn’t just petty drama anymore; it’s personal. April’s messed with someone’s job and livelihood. My hand grips the counter harder than I mean to.

Ivy sighs. “It’s okay,” she says, voice full of defeat. “It’s not like it was my dream job anyway.”

Tate narrows his eyes. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t minimize it.”

She shrugs one shoulder like she’s trying to make herself smaller. “I’m just saying. Who even knows what a dream job is?”

“Something that doesn’t end with you getting kicked out because of your last name,” Tate mutters.

Ivy gives him a quiet smile. Not bitter, not angry. Just tired.

But I’m not tired. I’m done.

“She doesn’t get to do this,” I say, loud enough to make them both turn toward me. “Not to you. Not to us. Not in our town.”

Tate blinks. “Willa?—”

His eyes lock on mine, and the room suddenly feels too quiet. Too still.

“You don’t have to fight this battle,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

My throat tightens. “Maybe I want to.”

Ivy’s watching us now like we’re the main characters in a soap opera she didn’t mean to audition for but is definitely not leaving.

“Okay,” she says, sniffling, “I’m still mad, but that was kind of hot.”

Tate huffs a soft laugh, but there’s something watery about it. He runs a hand through his hair and looks at me like he’s seeing something he forgot existed.

“I mean it,” I say, stepping a little closer. “You’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to want better. And you’re allowed to have people in your corner.”

There’s a long silence. Then, slowly, Tate nods. “Okay.”

Just that. But it lands like an earthquake under my skin.

“Also,” Ivy cuts in, sniffing dramatically and yanking a tissue from her bag, “I just want to say this is peak sister behavior. I’m proud. I will now accept muffins and your strongest tea blend for my emotional damage I went through today.”

“I made cinnamon apple,” I say, already walking toward the back to grab more.

Tate calls after me. “Those were for me , huh?”

I pause in the doorway, looking back at him over my shoulder. “Yeah,” I say, smirking. “You.”

His smile is small. But real.

And I think for the first time in a long time, he’s happy.

By the time we finish organizing the last batch of flyers for the festival, and sorting through the chaos that is the sign-up sheet for the festival activities, the bookstore feels like it's humming with life.

The glow from the string of lights above the counter is casting a honey-like haze over the room.

Tate leans back in the chair next to me, stretching one arm behind his head and groaning like an old man. “I think I’m never doing this again.”

I laugh, full and unguarded. “That’s what you get for not speaking up when Donna and my mom manipulate us.”

He gives me a tired grin, and I realize for the hundredth time today how ridiculously handsome he is. Hair mussed, sleeves pushed up. A smudge of ink on the side of his hand.

“I gotta say,” I murmur, curling my fingers around the last of my cider, “this isn’t how I thought this was all going to go.”

He tilts his head. “The festival?”

“Everything. Us. You helping and being here.”

His lips twitch into a slow, knowing smirk that makes my toes curl in my boots. “You did, didn’t you?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Did what?”

“You hoped,” he says, voice dropping to something lower. Warmer. “You hoped it’d get better.”

I blink. “You think I hoped?”

He leans in, eyes never leaving mine. “I know I did.”

My heart squeezes. “And has it?”

Tate nods, his smile soft now, a little shy. “Yeah. It has.”

And just like that, everything in me goes quiet.

I don’t realize I’ve moved until my leg brushes his under the table, and neither of us pulls away. Outside, the wind kicks up, rattling the front door just enough to remind us the season is shifting. Inside, though? Inside, it’s warm. Electric.

We fall into an easy silence, the kind that hums with things unsaid but understood .

Then Tate clears his throat. “So…this town ghost tour thing. Please tell me you’re dressing up.”

“Oh, absolutely. I’ve got a velvet cape, dramatic eye makeup, the works.”

He laughs, head tipping back slightly. “Of course you do.”

“What about you?”

He shrugs. “Old Pete says if I don’t dress up, I’m banned from the harbor. So, yeah. I’m going full pirate mode for Junie.”

“Please tell me you’re going to have a sexy eye patch.”

“You know I am.”

I giggle, and it breaks something in the air between us. The tension that’s been simmering all evening boils over.

He’s watching me now. “You’ve got cider on your lip,” he says, voice low.

I go to wipe it, but before I can, he leans forward and brushes his thumb across my mouth.

The touch is featherlight, but it steals every coherent thought from my brain.

“Got it,” he whispers.

I swallow, hard. “Thanks.”

We’re close now. Too close to pretend we’re just friends or festival co-planners or two people who happened to share a bench-fixing moment a few days ago.

My breath hitches. So does his.

“Willa,” he says, like it’s the only word he remembers how to say.

And then he kisses me. Soft at first.

The kiss deepens, slow and deliberate, every brush of his mouth sending shivers down my spine.

His hand slides to my waist, warm and steady, anchoring me as though he’s afraid I might slip away.

My fingers find the sharp line of his jaw, rough with stubble, then drift higher, tangling in the damp strands at the nape of his neck.

His tongue brushes mine, tentative and teasing, and everything inside me tightens and coils, hot and sharp.

We taste each other in that quiet, searching way, like we’re learning a language we once knew but almost forgot.

He tastes like cinnamon and salt air, like hope, like every late-night fantasy I’ve tried and failed to bury.

The kiss grows bolder, hungrier. His palm flattens against the small of my back, urging me closer until my chest presses to his. My own hands curl in his hair, pulling him deeper, refusing to let go. His thumb strokes slow circles into my hip, sending sparks scattering through me.

His body leans into mine, solid, unshakable, yet every movement of his mouth is careful, reverent, like he’s memorizing me. I part my lips, give him more, and the sound that rumbles low in his throat sets my skin aflame.

And suddenly, nothing else exists. Just us and this kiss that feels like coming home and burning down all at once.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, as if neither of us can quite let the moment go.

“Well,” I say, smiling so big my cheeks ache. “That’s definitely not how I thought tonight would end either.”

Tate chuckles, his thumb tracing circles at my hip. “Yeah, well. I told you I hoped it’d get better.”

“It has.”