Page 3 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

Tate

T he late-night salty sea air hits differently in Wisteria Cove.

It’s almost sharper here and full of ghosts that I feel deep in my chest before I even hit the harbor.

But deep down, it still feels like home.

And I have missed it, despite the empty grief that fills me when I think about the memories here.

Wisteria Cove probably hasn’t changed. I would bet the same old crooked street signs are still there that the town refuses to update.The houses that line the coast are still sea-scarred and clinging to the edge of the cliffs like they’re just daring a storm to come for them.

I drag my duffel higher on my shoulder, pausing on the dark corner when I see my house sitting up ahead, dark, familiar, and weathered.

The house looks as if it’s been holding its breath, waiting for me to step over the threshold again and bring her back to life.

Like it's clinging on for life, like I feel like I have been for the past few years.

I had old Pete Delaney, the old, retired harbor master, checking in on the house in my absence.

He made sure the yard was maintained for me.

I was glad he agreed to help because he keeps to himself, and I knew he wouldn’t talk about me or tell anyone where I was.

Still, he had no problems updating me on the comings and goings around Wisteria Cove.

At first, I didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to know.

But then I got homesick and looked forward to his updates.

And I specifically looked forward to the updates on Willa Maren.

Her bookstore took off, and it sounds like it’s been successful.

Last he mentioned, she was ‘single and ready to mingle,’ which I hated hearing.

I don’t want her to mingle with anyone. But I also realized that me being gone for two years and her not dating anyone wasn’t realistic.

But I don’t like it at all.

I stare down the dark street, and suddenly my shoulders feel lighter. I’m home, and while I thought it would feel heavy coming back here, it doesn’t. It feels like nothing has changed, yet somehow everything has changed.

Admittedly, I left without saying a word to almost anyone.

I figured it was better that way. Easier.

Okay, probably just easier for me, but I needed to do it.

I needed to leave this place. I felt like every day I was drowning, and I kept having recurring dreams that if Willa and I stayed friends, she’d drown, too.

The dream involved us on a boat during a storm.

Now, a good therapist would say that is the trauma of losing our dads at the same time.

But grief has a funny way of messing you up and putting you back together again when you’re ready.

And I’m finally ready to come back. I just don’t know if I can call this place home anymore or if this is truly where I’m supposed to be.

I stayed and tried to make it work for a while after my dad died.

For a long time, I told myself he was still out at sea fishing and just on a long trip.

But after a few years, I knew he was never coming back.

As I continued having to face the pitying looks, the whispers, and the way the salt air felt heavier in my lungs, it became too much. So, I left.

I took every deep-sea fishing job I could, one after another. Alaska. Nova Scotia. Even Iceland, once. The further I got from Wisteria Cove, the better.

Months went by, and before I knew it, years.

The only things I focused on were the next haul and the next port.

I lived for the salt on my skin, wind in my face, and calloused hands.

Fishing made sense. Fishing didn’t ask me to explain why I couldn’t breathe in Wisteria Cove anymore.

But I knew it would never be permanent. The sea could never be home.

And now I’m back because…well. There’s nowhere else to go. My mom is living down in Florida with her new husband and stepkids, and I’m not the biggest fan.

Pete called a few weeks ago and said the house was becoming too much and it needed repairs before the weather turned again, and that I needed to come back and take care of my own damn property.

He means well, but I think he misses me, too.

When my father died, he stepped in and was like a father to me.

I love that guy. We’ve check in every week, and his updates have meant a lot.

At first, I told myself I’d only come back long enough to fix the place up, then go back out again. That was the plan. But the second I stepped off the fishing boat and set foot onshore, something shifted. I could feel the pull drawing me straight here.

Some call it a spell, or some other folklore witchy stuff. But there is a pull here. Wisteria Cove will pull you in. It’ll make you feel something for a place, even if you want to leave. But this time it’s not just Wisteria Cove. It’s her.

I glance over at the place I’ve thought about every day for years. Wisteria Books my skin’s darker now, bronzed from summers spent hauling nets under an unforgiving sky, weathered in ways it never used to be.

Beneath the brim of my cap, my hair’s grown longer, darker, more chestnut than the sandy brown it used to be when I was a kid. My eyes look sharper, tired maybe, like I’ve seen more than I should have by thirty.

The boy who used to laugh too loud in this town, who carried around a spark of recklessness, is gone. In his place is someone leaner, harder-edged, someone carved out by tide and storm. And for a second, I wonder if Willa will see the difference. If she’ll see me at all.

I catch a glimpse of her, her dark hair pulled up loose, her mouth curved into that soft half-smile that always made my chest ache. She’s laughing at something one of her customers is saying. Her sisters Rowan and Ivy are perched at the counter. Probably nothing has changed with them, either.

And Willa…God, she looks good. Softer but stronger.

Comfortable in her skin in a way she wasn’t when we were kids, like she’s grown roots deep into this place, into this life.

Like she belongs here. And I…I don’t. I should turn around and go back to the house and get started on the damn repairs and pretend I’m invisible. But my feet won’t move.

Then the bell above the door jingles, loud enough to cut through the soft hum of conversation, and before I can even think about it, I’ve stepped inside.

Warmth rushes around me. The smell of coffee, books, candles, and cinnamon.

Laughter and voices, chatter and life. Her life.

And every single person in that shop goes still the second they see me.

And then Willa turns. She freezes, just for a second, eyes locking on mine.

Deep, warm eyes that still feel like they can see right through me, even after all this time. Her mouth parts like she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t. She doesn't look surprised to see me. Nor does she look happy.

I force myself to speak first. But it comes out low and rough. “Hey, Willa.”