Page 37 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

Willa

There isn’t a place in this town that doesn’t remind me of you.

I don’t want to belong to Wisteria Cove unless I belong here with you.

-Tate

T he rain comes down like punishment, and it pounds on the windows of the bookstore in rhythmic slaps, as the wind howls through Wisteria Cove. The shop lights flicker once, then again. This storm is a bad one and feels like it will leave a mark.

I’m restocking a display of fall reads near the front window when the door bursts open with a bang. The wind slams it against the wall, and a drenched silhouette stumbles in, frantic and calling out for me.

“Donna?” I run to her, and she’s soaked from head to toe, her hair plastered to her cheeks, eyes wild.

“Willa. It’s Pete,” she struggles to catch her breath, her eyes wild with worry. “Pete didn’t come back in. He went out to check traps, and no one can get ahold of him. Something is wrong! I just know it.”

My blood freezes. Not again. Not someone else.

“Where’s Tate?” I ask, already sprinting around the counter.

“He’s heading to the harbor,” Donna calls frantically after me. “He said he’s going out to look.”

I’m gone before she finishes the sentence. The wind nearly knocks me over the second I hit the street. My boots slip on wet cobblestones as I run, cloak whipping behind me like wings.

The harbor is chaos. Rain lashes sideways. Waves slam against the docks. A group of townspeople stand in huddled silence under the bait shop porch, watching with wide, worried eyes.

Pete isn’t just one of us; he is us. If he’s missing, I know Tate will literally turn this ocean upside down. Neither of us can handle losing someone else we love like that.

Tate is already on the boat in his wet gear, soaked through, checking the engine and about to pull off.

I scramble get on, slipping, and he whips around in surprise, his mouth open.

“You’re going to get Pete?” I shout over the storm.

His face is pale, jaw clenched. Determined. “I have to.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

He freezes. “Willa, no.”

I look at him stubbornly, unmoving.

He stares at me for a beat too long and then nods once. He knows this is big, because I haven’t been on a boat since my dad went missing. That’s all it takes.

I don’t hesitate and climb in next to him, helping him with the ropes.

He’s not the only one who grew up on a fishing boat.

It comes back to me, surprisingly, and we work side by side.

My fingers fumble as I grab a wet slicker from down below that’s way too big and slide it on.

I’ve been out with my dad in all types of weather, but this is the worst. Nobody should be out in this.

The boat bucks as we hit the waves, the engine roaring beneath us. Water sprays up over the sides, stinging cold against my cheeks. We move through the storm like a heartbeat, fast, frantic, desperate, and determined.

I scan the churning water, eyes burning from the rain. And then I see it.

A flicker of yellow and a half-submerged figure. Old Pete’s hunched figure, clinging to a buoy, soaked and shivering.

“There!” I scream.

Tate angles the boat hard. We pull up beside the wreck, ropes flying. It’s frantic, messy, and Tate’s hauling Pete in, me grabbing at his soaked coat, sobbing with relief. “Pete! Oh my god!”

Pete coughs violently, barely hanging on. He wouldn’t have been able to hang on much longer, and I’m so glad we got here when we did.

I cradle his face. “You old fool,” I whisper. “You scared the hell out of us.”

Tate drives us back through the storm. I hold Pete the whole way, his head resting against my shoulder as I whisper whatever comfort I can find. My heart is pounding, not from fear anymore, but from something else. We almost lost him.

Back on shore, Tate and I secure the boat in silence.

Our hands are shaking, soaked, frozen. Neither of us says anything, because we don’t have to.

Finding Pete alive restored something that we had lost in both of us.

A sliver of hope that we won’t lose another man we both love.

The dock creaks under our weight as the rain finally starts to ease. We finally face each other, breathless.

He speaks first. “We made it.”

I nod, eyes stinging. “We always will.”

He takes a shaky breath. “Willa, I?—”

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I see it now. I see what I didn’t before. You’re good at this. You’re a great fisherman. If you want this, I’ll support you. I’ll always support you. I shouldn’t have been so selfish. I won’t keep you from something that you love.”

His eyes search mine.

“If you still want to go,” I say, voice cracking, “I’ll be right here, waiting. Even if I miss you and will always worry about you.”

His face falls, and for a second, I think I’ve misread everything.

But then he shakes his head. “I’m not going.”

My heart stops, and I search his face. “What? What do you mean?”

“I need to take care of the people I love. I’ll always be here. For you. For Pete. For everyone who matters. Houses and boats don’t matter. People matter. You matter most. I love you.”

I step into him, pressing my lips to his. “I love you, you idiot.”

He kisses me as if the storm never happened. Like we were never lost. Like we were always finding our way back. And it feels right. Like everything was always going to be okay after all.

Later, Tate makes sure Pete is warm and safe at Donna’s while I wring out every inch of my soaked clothes and then take a hot shower.

I curl into my cozy sweats afterward, and then head back down to the bookstore to grab Tate’s flannel jacket that I took with me out of his truck to stay warm when he dropped me off.

I still can’t get warm, and also I just want to touch something that smells like him.

The bookstore is quiet. Dim. The storm still knocks gently on the windows, but it’s calmed to a soft weep and not the angry slaps that it was.

I step behind the counter and reach for the damp flannel he left in a heap.

It’s the one he always wears, navy, worn, lined in soft flannel.

Familiar in a way that makes my chest ache.

As I reach into the pockets and pull it tighter around me, something flutters to the floor. It’s a folded piece of paper, creased and damp.

I crouch to pick it up, fingers trembling. At first, I think it might be a receipt or a to do list. But then I see my name and my breath catches. The handwriting is unmistakably his.

I glance toward the door, as if someone might walk in. Like someone might stop me. My heart pounds as I unfold the rest of it slowly and carefully.

I read it and my vision blurs with tears. I read it again. And again. Each word hits me over and over like thunder. Every sentence peels away another piece of armor I had carefully constructed around my heart.

I sink to the floor behind the counter, the coat in my lap, the letter clutched in my hands. I can still feel the heat of the storm under my skin, but this? This wrecks me more than the wind or the waves ever could.

A quiet truth he held close, maybe because he thought he didn’t know how to say it out loud. Or maybe because he didn’t think I’d want to hear it. But I do. God, I do.

Tears roll down my cheeks, warm and unrelenting.

I press the letter to my chest, breathing through the ache, through the heartbreak and the healing.

For the storm and the rescue. For the boy who never stopped being my best friend, even when I thought he was gone.

And for the man he’s become, who will throw everything down to save the people he loves.

Who loves with all of his big heart, and for the second chance I never dared to hope for, now resting in my trembling hands.

This letter is everything. It’s his heart. And that heart is mine.

I don’t hear the bell chime on the door or hear the door open. But suddenly, he’s standing in the doorway, dripping wet, the storm soaking through his coat and hair. He looks like a man who’s walked through fire and rain just to get here, and maybe he has. His eyes lock on mine.

They drop to the letter in my hands. I stand slowly, chest tightening, breath trembling.

“You read it,” he says, voice raw like the wind outside.

I nod. Tears fall, slow and silent. I don’t wipe them away.

He takes a step closer. The rain hits harder behind him like it’s pushing him toward me. “I didn’t know if I’d ever be brave enough to give it to you.”

“You didn’t need to,” I whisper. “I’ve already forgiven you, I love you.”

He’s standing in front of me now. So close I can see the raindrops clinging to his lashes. The way his jaw ticks, barely restrained emotion. He looks at me like I’m the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“You said you loved me,” he says, like he’s afraid to believe it. “Even when I screw everything up. You mean it?”

I nod again. “With every part of me.”

He exhales, like the weight of the entire ocean just slid off his shoulders.

I reach up slowly and brush his soaked hair back from his forehead. His eyes flutter closed, and he leans into my touch like he’s starved for it. Like my fingertips are the only anchor he has left.

“Come upstairs,” I breathe, soft and certain.

He doesn’t hesitate.

We walk hand in hand through the quiet bookstore, the storm outside muting everything else. Cobweb is curled up in the window and watches us.

My apartment door creaks open. The scent of cedar, tea, and cinnamon wraps around us.

The second the door closes, he turns to me, and I fall into him. He kisses me like he’s drowning and I’m the only air he’s ever tasted. His hands tremble as they slide to my waist, then up my back, then cradle my face like I’m something breakable he never wants to break again.

I push him back towards the bathroom, kissing him until we stop just outside the shower. I reach up and turn it on the hottest setting.