Page 33 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

Tate

You could fill this harbor with all the words I didn’t say,

but there’s one that matters most:

stay.

I want to stay.

With you. I love you.

-Tate

W isteria Cove doesn’t just throw a festival; they turn the entire town into pure magic.

Lanterns glow like fireflies strung between the buildings, cider and cinnamon spill warmth into the air, and the whole town hums like it’s alive.

I can’t believe all the work it took to make this happen.

But the only thing on my mind right now is Willa and how much being back here with her means to me.

Donna and Lilith might’ve been the masterminds, pulling strings behind the scenes to get us together with this festival, but their grand plan wasn’t about pies or pumpkins. It was about her and me, remembering what we had and what we have now. And damn it, it worked.

Helping with the planning gave me something I didn’t even realize I was starving for, a means of belonging.

A reason to be here and to stay. To keep building instead of letting things slip away and fall apart around me.

But more than that, it gave me time with her.

Watching her laugh with her sisters, tuck her hair behind her ear while she argued about string lights, roll her eyes at me, and then soften and come back to me.

I will never know what I did to deserve her, but I will be forever grateful.

Somewhere between hammering stakes into the ground and hauling crates of pumpkins with Finn, I stopped feeling like the outsider who came back too late.

I started feeling like a man who still had a shot.

And it wasn’t because of the town, or the festival, or even the sense of belonging.

It was her. It’s always been her and always will be.

And for the first time in a long damn while, I don’t feel like I’m treading water or just surviving. I’m having fun with Willa and our friends. And I’m not ready to let that go.

The air smells like cider, firewood, and something sweet, which makes sense because there are treats everywhere.

Kids dressed like scarecrows and woodland creatures chase each other between hay bales.

The sound of laughter mixes with live music from local bands drifting from the gazebo stage.

Somewhere, Donna’s singing along to a song and probably writing future book scenes about all of this.

The bookstore is lit up like a postcard, lanterns glowing from every tree, pumpkin strings hanging from the porch, and Willa floating around in her maroon-colored sweater, her hair pinned back with a gold leaf clip, passing out spiced scones like the Fall Queen of New England.

And she truly is. She’s the next generation to Wisteria Cove just like her mother, Lilith.

She’s special to this town and special to me.

She smiles when she catches me watching her. I smile back, but my chest feels…tight. I can’t put my finger on it, but I hate that the feeling is there.

I’m helping with the hayride. Kids climb in, giggling, carrying caramel apples bigger than their faces. Junie’s riding shotgun with me, holding the reins like she’s steering a pirate ship. “You think this wagon could go airborne if we hit a bump hard enough?” She asks, dead serious.

“Kid, if we do that, your father’s gonna kill me.”

She nods as if that’s fair.

The wagon rumbles down the trail through the tree farm, and everything is golden.

After the ride, I help unload the wagon and head toward the cider booth. I pass Remy, looking like a slightly frazzled lumberjack trying to manage an excited five-year-old, and Ivy sweet-talking a group of tourists into donating to the Root & Salt apothecary shop raising money for Rowan.

Willa’s up on a stepladder, fixing a crooked banner, and I want to reach out.

Say something. Pull her into my arms and just hold her.

But I don’t. Because I’m feeling like maybe this is too good to be true.

For me everything usually is until it isn’t.

I grab a cup of cider and try to disappear into the crowd.

Lilith Maren doesn’t let people disappear, though.

She finds me behind the apothecary tea tent, somehow dressed in an all-black Victorian witch outfit with a moon necklace and an armful of popcorn balls.

“Ah,” she says. “Broody fisherman lurking but not participating. We must be approaching emotional sabotage o’clock. ”

I lift a brow. “What are you talking about, Lilith?”

“I have three daughters who are all afraid to love. I know the signs when I see them.”

I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off with a look that could set fire to wet leaves.

“You’re doing what she’s doing,” she says, sipping her tea. “Waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

I blink. “I’m not?—”

“You are. Watching her out of the corner of your eye like she’s gonna bolt. Bracing yourself for impact. Flinching at all the good parts because you’re scared of the bad parts.”

I look down into my cup. The steam’s gone. Damn. Lilith is good. Scary good, how intuitive she is.

Lilith lowers her voice. “She’s doing it, too. You know that, right?”

I nod, barely.

“She loves you,” she says simply. “But neither of you is letting yourselves just have it.”

I exhale, tight and ragged. “It’s just...I like it here. With her. At the tree farm. Waking up with the bookstore smell in my nose and the cat sitting on my chest. I like all of it. But part of me keeps thinking...what if I mess it up?”

She steps closer. “Here’s a secret no one tells you about love: you will mess it up.”

I look up at her. “Then why would I want it in the first place?”

She laughs. “Because believe it or not, it’s worth it. And it works out in the end.”

“But does it? You lost your husband. My mom lost my dad. That didn’t work out,” I say bitterly.

She tilts her head and watches me for a moment.

Then she says, “What if you keep showing up and put in the work? If you choose her even when you’re scared?

” She shrugs. “Then you’ll both be believing and fixing it, together.

And when the two of you are fighting, what could possibly destroy that? You need to be unified.”

I want to believe her.

“Just stop holding your breath, Tate,” she says, soft now. “This is the good part, and you’re in it.”

Then she pats my chest and walks away, calling out to Rowan, “Put down the cider slushie and go flirt with that boy you just kissed earlier!”

I watch her and Rowan argue back and forth playfully and shake my head, but her words are heavy in my chest. Deep down I know she’s right.

The rest of the festival is a blur of magic.

Junie wins the apple bobbing contest by somehow not getting her hair wet.

Donna gives a dramatic reading of her newest book under the big oak tree while children eat kettle corn around her like she’s a campfire goddess.

And her book characters are suspiciously similar to people we really know in this town.

Old Pete’s in his usual spot on the hay bale, waving his arms as he tells some godawful scary story about a ghost ship doomed to sail forever. Every sentence gets more ridiculous, more tangled in maritime metaphors. The kids lean in, wide-eyed. The adults laugh into their cider cups.

Cobweb trots past, tail high, not a stitch of costume on her, yet when the “Best Pet Costume” is announced, somehow, she wins the ribbon. The crowd cheers because even the cat has become a town favorite. People have stopped to take selfies with her.

The festival hums with energy. Strings of lanterns glow overhead, casting warm light across the booths and rides.

The sky deepens from gold to purple, stars winking faintly in the indigo.

Music drifts from the small stage near the cider press, someone strums a guitar, and couples sway close together.

I wander through it all in a daze, caught between watching the crowd and losing myself in it.

Kids squeal from the little Ferris wheel, their laughter ringing through the cool air.

A group of teenagers is at the ring toss, jeering at each other with every miss, whooping loud when someone finally lands one on the bottle neck.

“Come on, Tate,” one of them hollers. “Bet you can’t beat us.”

I let them talk me into it. I step up, pay a few bucks, and line up the rings. They heckle, of course, and Willa appears at my side just as I toss the first one. It clangs against glass, bouncing off.

She laughs, eyes bright, cheeks flushed pink from the chill. “All brawn, no aim?”

I shoot her a look, toss another. This one lands, neat as anything, sliding over the neck of a bottle. The teenagers groan. Willa claps, biting her lip like she’s trying not to grin too wide.

“What do I win?” I ask the guy behind the booth.

He shrugs, hands me a stuffed pumpkin. It’s ridiculous. Bright orange with stitched-on eyes. I hold it out to Willa.

Her dark hair spills around her shoulders, loose and wild, and when she takes the pumpkin, her smile softens. “Thanks, Tate.”

We wander together toward the midway games. I let her try her hand at the dart balloons. She pops three in a row, and the guy running the booth hands her a tiny plush bat. She beams, clutching it to her chest like she just won a gold medal.

Next we find ourselves at the caramel apple stand.

I buy two, and we walk side by side, chewing sticky bites, laughing when hers drips down her fingers.

I grab her wrist without thinking, bring her hand to my mouth, and lick the sugar off her knuckle.

She goes still, eyes wide, breath catching.

For a second, it’s just us and the taste of her skin sweet against my tongue.

Then someone calls out, breaking the spell, and she pulls her hand back, cheeks burning.

We circle the fairgrounds. Kids bob for apples in a barrel while their parents cheer. Couples sit wrapped in blankets on hay bales by the firepit, sipping hot cider. Lanterns sway overhead, glowing golden.