Page 44 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

Willa

Willa,

You once told me you hated unfinished stories.

So here’s mine:

It’s still you.

It’s always been you.

I just need you to help me write the ending.

-Tate

T here’s something sacred about the quiet here.

The hush of snow falling outside, the slow crackle from the fireplace, the warmth of Tate beside me beneath the quilt.

My cheek presses to his chest, and his fingers trail lazily up and down my arm, suggesting he is in no hurry to start the day, and for once, I am not either.

Cobweb perches on the dresser, tail flicking with judgmental rhythm, as if we’re her favorite soap opera, and the season finale isn’t delivering fast enough.

“She’s watching us again,” I murmur into Tate’s chest.

“Probably wants breakfast,” he mutters, voice gravelly with sleep. “Or a front-row seat to our scandalous display of cuddling.”

I snort and nudge him with my knee under the covers. “Scandalous? We haven’t even gotten to round two yet.”

Tate laughs, then stretches, pulling me tighter to him. His body is all warm muscle and sleepy comfort. If I could bottle this moment and keep it forever, I would.

Eventually, we untangle ourselves and make our way to the kitchen. The windows are rimmed in frost, and the snow outside sparkles like someone dusted the entire world in sugar.

He makes our coffee, and I make the toast, slathered with butter and honey, and we sit on the little bench by the window, knees touching, watching the world slowly wake.

I look over at him, at this man who came back into my life like a shipwreck survivor who still remembered how to swim, and I think: This is what home feels like. With him. He is my home. It’s with him. Wherever he is, that is my home.

Later, we bundle up and head to town. The bookstore is closed today, a rare gift I gave myself, but we still stop by to check things. As we make our way down Main Street to the shop, hand in hand, people call out to us with smiles and laughter.

“Morning, Willa and Tate!”

“Looking cozy, you two!”

“Did Tate finally propose or what?”

We laugh and wave. The snow crunches beneath our boots. The wreaths on the lampposts sway in the breeze. Everything smells like cinnamon, pine, and possibility.

We haven’t talked much about marriage, but we both know this is it. This is what we want, and we have it. Whatever else comes, has time to get here.

Inside the bookstore, the air is warmer, richer. The smell of the cinnamon broom near the door mingles with the evergreen garland I wrapped around the ladder. Warm lamps light up the space, and I swear even the books feel cozier.

I run my fingers across the spines as we pass the romance section. Tate does his usual routine, checks the back for deliveries and fixes anything that needs fixing.

My mom arrives midmorning, wrapped in a plaid shawl, cheeks pink from the cold.

“There’s my favorite bookstore witch,” she says, pulling me into a hug that smells like sandalwood and peppermint. “And my favorite brooding fisherman who finally stopped brooding.”

Tate grins. “I still brood occasionally. In moderation now.”

She hands me a wrapped package. It’s heavy and warm, like it holds secrets.

“What is this?” I ask.

“Open it.”

I peel back the brown paper to reveal a thick, worn recipe book. The cover is soft with age, the pages full of notes in the margins and smudges of flour.

“The Maren Family Spellbook,” she says with a wink. “It’s not just food. It’s memories and magic and a family treasure my mother passed down to me when I was ready. Now I’m giving it to you. I have one for your sisters that I made when they’re ready, too.”

Tears prick my eyes. “Thanks, Mom.”

“For when you make your own magic,” she adds, giving Tate a meaningful look, “now that you have your own home.”

Later, we leave Cobweb at the bookstore. We check in with Rowan and Finn, who are deep in discussions about floor samples for Salt & Root.

Tate and I take a walk along the harbor. The bench where Old Pete likes to sit is dusted with snow, but we brush it off and sit close, sipping our coffees that I brought from the bookstore.

The water is calm today, the fishing boats bob gently, and the gulls are quiet. The world feels paused, like it’s giving us a moment.

Tate slides his arm around me. “I was thinking about the boat,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Donna told me I could do whatever I wanted with it. I was thinking about doing tours. Maybe even one of those harbor cruises with cider and stories. Something fun that makes people fall in love with this place the way we did.”

I rest my head on his shoulder. “You’d be great at that.”

He presses a kiss to my hair. “Maybe I could call it The Second Chance.”

I laugh, squeezing his hand. “You’re getting soft, Holloway.”

“Just trying to keep up with my hopeless romantic of a girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend, huh?” I tease and nudge him.

His hand slides into mine, and he holds it tight. “Yeah, my girlfriend. What do you want me to call you?”

“Girlfriend is fine.” I smile and lean my head on his shoulder.

We sit in silence for a moment, watching the world shimmer with frost and fading light.

“This isn’t a dream, right?” I whisper.

Tate turns to me, eyes warm and sure. “No. It’s real.”

Tate’s hand is warm in mine, gloved fingers curled around my mittened ones, and even though the wind bites our cheeks, I feel flushed with something warmer than the December air.

“This one?” I ask, stopping in front of a tall, slightly crooked pine.

Tate squints. “It’s a little lopsided.”

“Exactly,” I say. “It’s got personality.”

He chuckles and gives the trunk a tap. “All right. You’re the boss, bookstore girl.”

“I’ll remind you of that next time you try to argue about where the garland goes.”

He leans in and kisses my forehead, then hoists the tree over his shoulder like some kind of lumberjack Santa Claus. “Deal.”

Back at the cabin, we crank up the Christmas playlist on the old record player with Bing Crosby crackling under the needle and Cobweb weaves between our feet like a tiny, judgmental supervisor.

The cabin smells like pine and cinnamon and warm cider. The fire crackles, and the snow outside thickens until it blurs the world beyond our frosted windows.

We decorate barefoot. Tate strings the lights while I unwrap more ornaments we’ve collected. A ceramic book. A little felt fish. A glittery ornament that says First Christmas in the Cabin. We hang them slowly, laughing, kissing between each one.

“Careful,” I say as he reaches high for the top branch. “If you fall and break something, I’m not helping. I’ll just say ‘told you so’ while the paramedics take you away.”

“Spoken like a woman truly full of holiday spirit,” he deadpans.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I reply.

He grins down at me. “Luckiest man alive.”

Once the tree is glowing in the corner, lights twinkling against the dark wood walls, I head to the little table by the window where I’ve stashed a folder. Tate flops onto the couch, legs stretched out, one hand lazily stroking Cobweb’s fur.

I pull out a few sheets of paper, half-doodles, half-plans and hold them up.

“Okay,” I say, heart skipping a little. “Don’t laugh.”

Tate sits up, interested. “What is that?”

I hand him the sketches. “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I started thinking… what if your boat tours weren’t just tours? What if they were stories?”

He flips through the pages. My sketches are rough but full of heart, little flyers with waves and anchor illustrations, bookmarks with quotes and history snippets. One has a mockup of a flyer with the tagline: Wisteria Harbor Second Chance Tours: Where Every Journey Has a Story.

“You wrote all this?” he asks, voice quieter.

I nod. “I figured…you’d captain the boat, tell stories. Local legends, history, ghost tales. Maybe even a sunset poetry cruise if you're feeling brave.”

He snorts. “You want me to read poems to tourists?”

“No,” I grin. “But I might sell them to them.”

He flips the page again, then looks up at me. “This is…incredible.”

My throat tightens. “I just thought, if we’re building a life, maybe we start building the dream part, too.”

He pulls me into his lap and kisses me like I handed him the keys to something sacred. Like I opened the door to a home he didn’t know he was allowed to want.

But he just shakes his head and reaches into his flannel pocket. “No. It’s perfect.”

He pulls out a small, clear glass bottle. Tucked inside, rolled up with a bit of twine, is a tiny note.

I blink at him. “Tate…”

He shrugs, a little sheepish. “I’ve had this one ready for a while. Just waiting for the right moment.”

I uncork the bottle carefully and slide the note out with trembling fingers.

It reads:

“This time, I’m not drifting. I’m anchoring to you.”

Tears well instantly. I press the note to my heart, chest aching in the best way.

“You’re going to destroy me with these, Holloway,” I whisper.

“Good,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to my temple. “Because you ruined me first.”

I kiss him back, slow and sure and deep, and when we finally pull apart, the fire’s dimmed to glowing embers, and the tree sparkles beside us like something out of a snow globe.

We stay up late talking about the tour business, too excited to sleep about who we might hire in the spring to help, whether Marco would cater boat picnics, and if Old Pete could be talked into sharing his legendary sea stories.

Tate lays back on the couch, one arm around me, the other gesturing at the ceiling like he’s already dreaming it into reality.

“I could take people around the harbor,” he says. “Tell them about the old lighthouse keeper who fell in love with the baker’s daughter. Or the sea captain who left a bottle in the waves for his wife every full moon.”

“And I’ll sell bookmarks in the shop,” I say. “And maybe write up some little booklets to go with the tours.”

Tate grins, eyes sparkling in the firelight. “Willa Maren Holloway, storyteller of the sea.”

“Willa Maren Holloway?” I tease.

He shrugs. “Just seeing how it feels to say.” He laughs and pulls me in again.

And when we finally head to bed, the tree glowing in the corner, Cobweb curled at our feet, and dreams of a new kind of future dancing behind our eyelids, I know this isn’t just another chapter.

It’s the prologue of a brand-new book. And we’re writing it together.