Page 39 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

Tate

F or the first time in what feels like days, Wisteria Cove is quiet, and the wind’s not trying to tear everything apart.

The storm passed before dawn, but I barely noticed, because I had my arms wrapped around her, and almost everything is right with my world.

Almost. I hate that Pete is sick, and I hate that we almost lost him last night.

He scared the hell out of me. Thank God Donna and Pete are close, and she knew something was off.

She saved his life, letting us all know that he had done something foolish going out like that. I will be talking to him about that.

I’m awake before Willa, tucked under our quilt that smells like cedar and cinnamon, the soft purr of Cobweb vibrating against my thigh. The little kitten has made herself at home in my lap like this is normal. Like I’m her normal. And god, I love it.

The bookstore is still and dark.

I shift slowly, careful not to wake Willa, who’s curled beside me in nothing but one of my flannels.

Her dark hair’s a mess. Her bare legs are tangled in the quilt.

Her hand’s on my chest like she never wants to let go.

I don’t want her to, either. I press a kiss to her forehead and let my eyes close again.

Ten minutes later, she’s gone from my side and humming in the small kitchen of the loft. Her voice is soft, almost subconscious. She doesn’t know she’s doing it, but I do. She hums when she feels good. Safe. And I haven’t heard that hum in a long time.

I sit up and reach for the mug she set beside the bed. Coffee. Strong and hot. She knows how I take it.

Cobweb stretches and hops off me like she’s done her job and now demands breakfast. I sip slow. Let it all sink in. The storm is over. She’s here. I didn’t lose her. Life feels...good.

I stand, stretch, and wander into the kitchen. She’s at the stove, flipping eggs in a cast-iron skillet, her back to me. The flannel rides up just high enough to make my brain short-circuit.

I lean in the doorway, sipping my coffee, smiling like a damn fool. “You’re humming,” I say, voice still sleep-rough.

She glances over her shoulder and smirks. “And you’re watching me like a weirdo.”

I shrug, stepping closer. “I like what I see.”

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the way her cheeks flush. She plates the eggs and adds buttered toast, handing one plate to me. “Sit. Eat. You earned it.”

“How did I earn it? Was it after we rescued Old Pete or what I did to you in that shower and bed?” I grin as I drop into the chair like it’s the best seat in the house. Probably because it is. It’s across from her.

She laughs and says, “Both.”

We eat in silence for a moment, only the sounds of forks and the occasional pop from the fire in the wood stove.

She sips her coffee and raises a brow. “You’re quiet.”

I smile into my toast. “Just taking it all in.”

“Taking what in?”

“This,” I say, motioning around the room. “You. Me. Cobweb sleeping over there like she pays rent.”

The cat flicks her tail at me, unimpressed.

Willa’s eyes soften. “It’s not perfect, but I think we can build a good life here together.”

I lean across the table. “I know we will. We already are.”

She sets down her fork. “Good, but we need to look for a place. Rowan needs the loft up here while she’s building next door. Her cottage doesn’t have heat right now. It makes sense for her to be here when she’s doing renovations.”

The second she says it, my fork stills halfway to my mouth. We need to look for a place.

The words echo in my head, rattling around my chest like they’re too big to fit all at once. She’s not just talking about a roof over our heads. She’s talking about us. About choosing somewhere together. About building something permanent.

For a man who’s spent years drifting, convincing himself he wasn’t built for roots, it hits me hard. Like the ground has shifted under my boots. My pulse kicks, equal parts shock and wonder, and I can’t stop staring at her.

She says it so casually, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe that’s what floors me the most. To her, this isn’t a question. It isn’t a risk. It’s just us. The two of us, carving out space together in this town, in this life.

My chest tightens, something raw and fierce swelling there. It feels like hope. It feels like belonging. Like finally coming home after being lost at sea.

Her hand drifts across the table, and I take it. Our fingers lace easily, naturally. Like we’ve done this a hundred times. Like we should’ve been doing this all along.

“You slept hard,” she says.

“You wore me out,” I tease, voice low.

Her eyes sparkle. “Are you complaining?”

“Not even a little.”

I reach across, brushing a crumb from the corner of her mouth with my thumb. She catches my wrist, holds it there for a beat too long, like she doesn’t want to let it go.

“I meant what I said last night,” I tell her. “I will do everything to make you feel safe. I’m not leaving.”

Her smile fades a little. “I just...I’ve waited a long time to feel safe again. Really safe. I don’t want to keep bracing for the goodbye.”

I nod, standing up. I walk around the table and kneel beside her chair. “No more goodbyes.”

Her eyes shine, and she leans forward, pressing her lips to mine. It’s slow and sweet, just like everything else this morning. She tastes like coffee and sunshine.

When we pull apart, she rests her forehead against mine.

“You hungry still?” she asks.

I grin. “Not for food.”

She laughs, soft and breathless and kisses me again. The storm is gone. The world is quiet. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe I don’t have to fight so hard anymore.

It’s Sunday, and the bookstore is closed. We’re curled up on Willa’s couch, under the old quilt with Cobweb asleep on our lap. The bookstore below us is quiet, full of dust motes dancing in the sun and stories.

She’s in my arms, legs tucked under her, her cheek against my chest. And we’re just… here. Still and settled. Breathing the same rhythm.

But I feel her hand resting on my chest, right over my heart. I feel the questions in her fingertips. The things neither of us has said yet. The heaviness we keep pretending isn’t there. So I start. Not because it’s easy. But it’s time.

“I have to tell you something,” I tell her softly.

She lifts her head slowly. “What?”

“Old Pete’s sick.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, looking stricken.

I nod, my throat feeling tight. “A few days ago, he came by the tree farm and told me.”

“Oh, Tate…” Her fingers slide into mine.

I stare at the fire. “I’m not sure if he wants everyone to know. But I think after last night, you should know. But maybe he doesn’t know how to tell everyone. Saying it out loud feels like it’s real. And I don’t want it to be real.”

She squeezes my hand. “I hate this. But he doesn’t have to do this alone. I want to be there for him.”

I exhale, shaky and low. The kind that’s been sitting in my lungs for years. “He told me I’d be the one to look after Wisteria Cove when he’s gone.”

Willa’s eyes soften. “He trusts you. And he knows you have a heart even bigger than his.”

“Yeah. Which is insane, right? I’ve done nothing to prove I’m worthy of that trust. I’ve let people down.” I pause, blinking hard. “I thought we’d have more time with him.”

She brushes her thumb across my cheek, and I see a tear streak down her cheek. “I know. I always thought that when I got married, he’d be the one to walk me down the aisle. He told me that he would after my dad died.”

“I want to be present for every minute of this life that I can and be there for those I love,” I say with conviction. No matter what happens, we are all in this together.

Her breath catches, but she doesn’t speak.

I sit up a little, needing to look her in the eye for what comes next.

“There’s something else,” I say. “Something I’ve never told anyone.”

She nods once. Silent. Ready.

“The day my dad died…” I stop, my jaw clenching. My hands curl into fists before I force them open. “My dad and I had plans. He wasn’t supposed to go out that day. Stupid, right?”

She shakes her head, eyes already shimmering. “Not stupid.”

“But then your dad…” I swallow hard. “He radioed in that he needed my dad.”

She’s silent. Completely still.

“And my dad went,” I say, my voice flat now. “And I had a bad feeling. I had even asked to go out with them. But he had shrugged me off and said he didn’t need me.”

I see it hit her. Like a wave to the chest.

My voice cracks when I continue. “I know it wasn’t your dad’s fault. But part of me…part of me needed someone to blame.”

“And you blamed my dad,” she whispers.

“Yeah. I did. For a long time.”

Tears slip from the corners of her eyes, but she doesn’t look away. “I always wondered if you did.”

“I know it was just an accident.” I press my hand to her cheek. “I was angry and broken and drowning in it.”

“We didn’t know how to hold grief,” she says, her voice cracking.

I nod. “And I held it wrong. I held it until it poisoned everything.”

Her lip trembles. She leans into my palm like she’s been waiting for this moment to happen between us so we can finally get past it, something that was keeping us from being fully together. It’s gone now.

“I should’ve dealt with it sooner,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

She climbs into my lap and wraps her arms around my neck, burying her face in my shoulder.

I hold her. Tight. Like I’m making up for every second I didn’t before. And she cries. She cries for her dad. For mine. For Old Pete. For us. And I let her. Because for the first time, it feels safe to fall apart.

We sit like that until her tears slow. Until all that’s left is the warmth of our skin pressed together, the steady rise and fall of our breathing.

“I don’t want to carry all this sadness anymore,” I say.

“I know,” she whispers.

She leans in and kisses me softly and slowly and a little shakily, like we’re rewriting the past with our mouths.

Her hands cradle my face like she’s afraid I’ll disappear. I kiss her back like I never want to leave again. Because I don’t. Because this pain—the love, the mess of it—is real. And it's ours.

We curl back up under the quilt, tangled and quiet, her head on my chest and my heart steady for the first time in years.

“I love you,” I whisper into her hair.

She sighs against me, her body soft and warm in my arms. “I love you, too.”