Page 35 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

Willa

Do you know what I realized today?

I never really belonged to the sea.

I belong to you.

-Tate

I slam the teakettle onto the counter hard enough to rattle the sugar jar sitting behind it. If I don’t slam something then, I might shatter. And I’m not shattering over Tate Holloway again. I swore I wouldn’t.

“Why is he doing this?” I snap, voice sharp and wild in the calm of the bookstore. “Why would he even consider leaving again?”

The tea sloshes in the cup. Cobweb lifts her head from her patch of sunlight on the front display and blinks at me like you okay, mother?

“No, I am not okay,” I inform the cat, whose ears are back as she watches me with alarm.

Ivy leans her elbows on the front desk, sipping something with lavender and lemon and zero patience. “I mean, let’s be honest, he’s a deep-sea fisherman. This is what he knows.”

Rowan snorts. “He’s also a Scorpio. That means he is impulsive, and he likes danger.”

I throw my hands up. “Does it matter? He’s considering getting on a boat and disappearing for six weeks like this life we’ve built is just optional.

And what if something happens and he doesn’t come back?

Do you know how I felt all those years that he was gone?

I felt like he was dead, like dad. And now he’s back, and I could lose him again. ”

Rowan takes a deep breath, “You’re bringing our trauma into this.

Tate isn’t Dad or Phil. He’s safe. And he knows what he’s doing.

And to be fair, you know that he’s a fisherman.

It’s what he’s done for years. You know this.

You can’t make him stop doing what he loves just because you’re scared. That’s not right, and you know it.”

I don’t like being called on my shit by my sisters but deep down I know they’re right.

Ivy hums. “To be fair…you’re kind of at fault here, too.”

I whirl on her. “What is that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs, totally unfazed. “You didn’t exactly put up a fight, Willa. You said ‘then go,’ not ‘stay.’ You didn’t ask him to choose you. You practically shoved him out the door. How do you think that made him feel? Like he’s not even worth fighting for. You were supposed to fight for him.”

“I’m not going to beg someone to stay with me,” I snap. “If he doesn’t want to stay with me, that’s fine. He can just go.”

“Clearly it is not fine,” Ivy mumbles.

Rowan, perched on a stool behind the counter, tilts her head. “No one said anything about begging. But have you ever told him you want him to stay? That he’s your person? That you’re in it ?”

“I thought I was showing him,” I say, quieter now. “I thought that was enough.”

Ivy arches a brow. “Sometimes people need the words. And you can always jump his bones, too.”

I feel the pressure building in my chest. Like every carefully balanced emotion I’ve been holding in has just shifted.

This is dumb. We’re not kids anymore. We’re freaking grown-ups, and I can tell him what’s on my mind.

And he can either decide or break my heart again. And that is the part that scares me.

“Okay, you know what?” I hiss, hands flat on the counter now, shaking.

“Maybe I didn’t say it or spell it out. But why is it always me who has to go first?

Who has to be brave? I’ve been building a life here from nothing.

I’ve been trying, really trying, to let someone in for the first time since everything with Dad. ”

Ivy and Rowan just watch me and wait.

“I’ve let him in more than I ever thought I would,” I whisper.

“I’ve made space for him in my home, my work, my everyday life.

I watch him tuck my cat into a blanket and laugh with me.

And every time he looks at me like I’m the best thing that ever happened to him, I want to believe it’s real.

But then he gets on the phone and talks about leaving like it was nothing. ”

I blink fast. Too fast. The tears come, anyway. “He’s already thinking about going,” I say, crumpling into the nearest chair like my bones gave out. “I was stupid to let myself fall for him again. What if I’m the only one who cares this much?”

The words echo in the room.

Rowan gets off the stool and crouches beside me, her hand warm on my arm. “He’s lost a lot, too, Will. His boat and his home. His dad, too. And his mom totally sucks. That kind of grief doesn’t just disappear. Maybe he’s scared of what it’ll mean to stay and let things be good again.”

Ivy settles on the arm of the chair beside me, sipping from her cup. “You’re both in unchartered territory and have to learn to trust.”

I don’t answer. Most of all, I’m scared of loving someone who might leave. Someone I could lose this easily.

I’m scared of believing in something and being wrong again. I’m scared of hope. “I don’t want to lose him,” I whisper.

“But you don’t want to be the one left standing on the dock, either,” Rowan finishes for me.

My throat closes. I nod. And then I cry. Not the quiet kind. The messy, ugly, snot-wipe-on-your-own-sleeve kind.

Ivy gently slides me a tissue from her coat pocket. “There, there. Let it out.”

“Shut up,” I sniffle.

“Love you, too,” she says.

The bookstore is quiet for a beat. Just the creak of the old heater and the rustle of leaves outside the front door.

Then we hear it. A throat clears softly. We all turn. Mom stands in the doorway to the back room, arms crossed, eyes knowing. Her presence hums like candlelight in a storm and always has. She looks at me for a long moment.

Then she says, “It’s going to be okay.”

I blink at her.

She walks in slowly, heels clicking on the wood floor, a half-folded scarf in her hands like she was doing some mundane task and just heard things. And she does that sometimes. Her intuition about her daughters is usually spot on.

“You’re both waiting for the other shoe to drop,” she says. “You’re both bracing for impact. Acting like happiness is a trap instead of a choice.”

My heart lurches. She’s right. Even though I don’t want to admit it.

She stops in front of me, gentle but fierce.

“And here’s the thing. If you keep expecting love to break, you’re going to destroy it before you can get to enjoy it.

Could you imagine if I had done that with your dad?

Not been with him because he would have left too soon?

I would have missed out on him, you girls, and the greatest part of my life. ”

She looks at me so deeply it makes my eyes water again.

“Real love?” she says, soft now. “It’s worth anchoring yourself to. Even when you’re scared.”

I can’t speak. Because I know she’s right.

She brushes my hair back behind my ear, just once, like she did when I was seven, too tired and fighting sleep.

Then she hands me the scarf and walks away without another word. The shop is quiet again.

I just sit there feeling cracked wide open.

Later, after Ivy makes another pot of tea and Rowan insists we all eat muffins for emotional grounding, I go upstairs to the apartment and curl up in the window seat.

Cobweb jumps into my lap like she knew this was coming. She tucks her little paws under her chest and stares out at the harbor with me like she’s keeping watch.

I think about the way Tate looks at me.

The way he kisses me like I’m the only thing tethering him to shore.

The way he pulled away, not because he didn’t care, but because he did.

And I think…

Maybe we’re both just scared of the same thing, and we’ve both been hurt enough to think happiness is a trick. But maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s a choice. And if I want to keep him, I might have to be the first one to choose it.

The bell over the door jingles, and I wipe my face quickly with the sleeve of my cardigan, praying it doesn’t look like I just had a breakdown in the tea nook. Again.

It’s late afternoon, the sun slipping golden through the front windows. Ivy and Rowan have stepped out to “forage cider and talk shit.” The bookstore’s quiet now.

“Hi there,” the woman says, stepping inside.

She’s probably mid-sixties, bundled in a deep burgundy pea coat with mittens still clipped to her sleeves. Her gray curls are frizzy from the wind, and her smile is warm enough to melt chocolate.

“Welcome in,” I say softly, trying to reset my face into something not so wrecked.

“I’m looking for a book,” she says, glancing around. “A romance. But not one of those ‘young things fall in lust and figure it out after 250 pages’ types.”

I blink. “Okay. More slow burn?”

She waves her hand. “No, no. Not slow burn. I want something with grit . I want a love story that almost breaks them apart. But they find their way back. They fight for it.”

I swallow.

“Like...a second chance story?” I ask, throat a little tight.

“Yes!” she says, lighting up. “Second chances. Third ones, too. Real messy love. The kind that leaves bruises, but you still choose it.”

Something stirs in my chest. I know that love.

She leans in, eyes searching mine like we’re in on some kind of secret. “My husband and I divorced when we were forty-two. Didn’t speak for five years. Then one day he showed up at my work with a sandwich and said, ‘I’m tired of pretending I don’t still love you.’”

I blink hard. “What happened?”

“We got remarried,” she says simply. “Twelve years ago this Christmas.”

My hand wraps tightly around the edge of the counter. “That’s beautiful.”

“It was terrifying ,” she says with a laugh. “But the truth is, real love isn’t safe. It’s a damn gamble every single day. You just have to decide if it’s worth going all in.”

I nod slowly, fingers tingling.

She walks over to the romance shelf and picks up a book by an author I know always delivers on a good happily ever after.

“I’ll take this one,” she says. “And maybe one of those scones. This looks like the kind of place that has good scones.”

I blink back a tear. “We do. And I’ll ring up this book for you.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” she says softly. “And if there’s someone you love...don’t wait too long to tell him.”

I nod again, speechless.

Because the truth is, I think I already did.

The bookstore’s quiet again by the time the sun dips past the harbor.

I climb the stairs slowly, every step creaking like it wants to warn me of what’s waiting. Cobweb brushes against my ankle as I reach the top, her little black tail flicking like she knows I need company tonight.

The apartment still smells like him. Just traces of woodsmoke, aftershave, pine needles.

It feels like home when he’s here. Or what was starting to feel like it.

I pour myself a mug of tea and wrap both hands around it, then sink onto the couch. I should be texting Ivy back, folding laundry, or working on this week’s book order, or doing literally anything to distract myself.

But instead, I reach into my pocket where I’ve been hiding the messages Tate’s left me over the past few weeks.

He left me little glass vessels. Each one with a note curled inside like a secret. Like a pumpkin spice love spell.

I read the first one. I smile, but it doesn’t reach my chest.

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Because he meant it. I know he did.

And still…when it came down to it, he didn’t know if he’d stay.

He hesitated.

The door creaks as the wind pushes against it, and for a moment I imagine he’ll walk through.

Smiling, tugging off his boots, asking what book I’m reading tonight.

But it’s just the wind.

And the sound of my own heartbeat.

I curl deeper into the couch, Cobweb climbing onto my chest, purring like a lullaby I don’t deserve.

“I want him to stay,” I whisper to the dark. “I want him to choose this. Choose me.”

The tea’s cold. My chest aches. But even now, surrounded by his words, I don’t know if it’s enough.

Because I’ve had people choose me before. And leave anyway.