Page 6 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

Willa

T his is fine. Totally fine. I do not have feelings for Tate Holloway. I absolutely, one hundred percent, do not have feelings for Tate Holloway.

And if this entire town thinks otherwise? Well...they can keep their opinions to themselves. And I won't be giving them any pumpkin scones if they give me any crap about it.

Okay, I won't withhold the scones, but I don't like that everyone is so happy and forgiving that he's back. And I'm over here just floundering like a floppy fish loose on the dock. I feel awkward around him. Like I have zero chill at all.

It happens every morning now. I can’t even take a peaceful walk along the harbor without running straight into reminders of him. Or him.

It's kind of like if you think about a specific color and car. Then you see it everywhere you look. And you probably wouldn't have noticed that car before. But then suddenly it’s everywhere you look. Yeah, that’s how I feel right now.

Sigh. Now, he's everywhere. He's at my house, chatting it up with my mom. I see that he’s been working down at the dock again, like old times.

It's a full-time job right now to pretend I'm not affected by him being back in town.

But I am. I take a walk every day on my break and take in the fresh autumn air.

And somehow, I usually end up near him or seeing him.

And here he is.

The scruffy kid who once ruled these docks with cocky smirks and boyish charm has vanished, replaced by a man who carries himself like he’s weathered every storm and come out stronger.

Broad shoulders, sun-warmed skin, that steady gaze that pins me in place.

Just one look at him, and it’s not just my knees that go weak.

It’s every part of me that remembers exactly how dangerous he’s always been to my heart.

He has the power to destroy me piece by piece. And he has before.

Tate’s on the dock, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, forearms flexing with every crab trap he hauls onto the decking like it weighs nothing.

The low Red Sox cap shadows his face just enough to make him look annoyingly sexy, as if he belongs on the cover of some salty New England fisherman calendar.

The morning sun slices through the harbor mist, turning the water to silver glitter, but all I see is him.

He works with a steady, practiced efficiency, shoulders broad, back straight, that quiet determination he’s always had, but it’s different now.

There’s a calm confidence about him, like he’s completely at home down on that dock.

And holy hell, that skin…tan and weathered and stretched over muscles I’m definitely not supposed to be thinking about.

He hasn’t even looked my way, probably doesn’t realize I’m standing here at all, but every movement he makes feels like it’s just for me. It’s doing dangerous things to my ability to function like a normal human being.

Yeah. This is going to be a problem.

I clutch my coffee tightly as I turn and walk faster, willing my pulse to calm down on my way back to the bookstore.

I glance around and see people watching me and glancing over at Tate. It's as if they're waiting for a reaction. I swear this town is conspiring to ruin me.

And speaking of conspirators: Donna Bennett is staring at me with a knowing grin from the bench along Main Street facing the harbor, knitting needles clicking like tiny weapons. She's probably already adding me into one of her small-town romance books with Tate.

“I saw you watching our Tate, dear,” she calls out at full volume. “You two have so much chemistry! You know what clears the air between two stubborn people? Breaking a bed frame! Works like a charm!”

My face burns hotter than my latte. “Donna,” I mutter, glancing around to see if anyone else heard.

Spoiler alert: everyone did. Ben from the bait shop is openly grinning. He looks like he wants to start clapping.

Great.

By the time I storm back into the bookstore, I’m muttering under my breath.

“Rough walk, sis?” Rowan asks, amusement curling around every word.

I glare at her. “Your favorite town busybody just suggested I break a bed frame with Tate Holloway to ‘clear the air.’”

Ivy looks up from behind the counter, where she’s taping up a new “AUTUMN SPELLS & STORIES” sign that she designed. “Donna again?”

“She’s practically your PR manager at this point,” Rowan says, leaning dramatically on a display table.

“Then she’s fired,” I mutter.

The bell above the door jingles for the hundredth time today as another group of tourists floods in, all bright eyes and camera phones, whispering like they’re on safari.

One of them points right at me and stage-whispers in awe, “That’s one of them! A Maren sister!”

This never gets easier, but I do my best to be friendly.

Usually, I don’t even have to try. Normally, I thrive on the noise, the bustle, the constant stream of chatter in and out of the shop.

I’ve always loved welcoming strangers, swapping stories with tourists, laughing with locals who linger over coffee.

But today? My mood’s all twisted up like a messy knotted fishing net.

I paste on a smile, even as every nerve in me feels prickly and out of sync.

Thanks to Tate showing up out of nowhere, looking like every broody sea-soaked daydream come to life, and the entire town deciding my love life is a community project, I’m out of sorts.

It takes effort just to keep my voice light, to keep the edges of my irritation tucked away.

And that only makes me crankier. Because when being friendly becomes work, I start to feel like I’m losing the very thing I’ve always loved most about this place. I plaster on my best polite smile and shuffle behind the counter before I say something snarky that ends up on Yelp.

The bell above the door jingles again like it’s laughing at me, and more tourists pile in looking for books and drinks.

Inside the shop, cozy chaos is everywhere. When I left for my break, the place was slow.

The bookstore is full now, tourists everywhere, taking photos, hovering near the ‘Local Legends’ display, whispering about the 'mysterious Maren sisters.' A few of them glance at the display and back at me, and I see another lady slide her phone out of her purse and hold it up to take a photo.

Great. Just what we need. I take it all in stride, though. It's weird, but this time of year is always busy and full of tourists. They help out our town, despite it being creepy.

Behind the counter, Ivy looks far too pleased with herself as she rings up another tote bag full of books and chats up the customers. This time of year, we need all the help we can get. We've been saving up to expand next door, where Rowan plans on putting an apothecary shop.

And then there’s my mother, Lilith. She’s behind the bakery case, apron dusted with flour, proudly sliding a tray of pumpkin scones into the glass bakery case, as if she’s hosting a Food Network special.

People will quickly buy out every one of those scones, judging by the forming line.

“Oh, Willa,” my mom says far too casually, “Did you know Tate Holloway loves these pumpkin scones? You should take him some before they're all gone. He must be starving after unloading traps all morning.”

I stop in my tracks. “Mom,” I warn.

“What?” she asks, feigning innocence, drizzling icing onto the scones. “It’s just neighborly hospitality.”

She has a sparkle in her eye that says she’s up to something. I'll be keeping a close eye on her. Closer than ever now. She's scheming. I can feel it. I stare at her for a while and squint my eyes until she looks at me, shrugs her shoulders, and grins.

The afternoon hums right along, refusing to slow for anyone, least of all me.

The sun drifts lazily over the harbor, casting everything in a golden haze that makes the pumpkins on every porch glow like lanterns and the falling leaves swirl like they’re part of some slow, deliberate dance.

Somewhere down the street, wind chimes tangle in the breeze, and the distant clatter of people out walking echoes.

But no matter how beautiful the day is, it just keeps pulling me with it, tasks unfinished, errands waiting, feelings I’m not quite ready to name piling up right alongside everything else.

And through it all, I catch myself glancing toward the dock again, where Tate was working, unaware that he’s taking up far too much space in my head.

The three of us, me, Ivy, and Rowan, are deep in a ridiculous argument about how to rearrange the store to handle the tourists and make more space.

“Rowan, we can’t just dump the romance section in with the horror,” I protest.

“Why not?” she counters. “Some plots overlap. Stalking, obsession, bad decisions. It makes sense to me.”

Ivy snorts. “She’s onto something here. It’s all basically one genre anyway: red flags and bad decisions with or without a knife.”

I laugh. “You’re both hilarious.”

“Says the three of us, whose dating lives are basically horror stories anyway.” Rowan jokes.

“Hey!” Ivy protests but then closes her mouth when Rowan gives her a pointed look. She has an on-and-off-again boyfriend, but he's a jerk, and none of us like him.

We all have nicknames for Derek, depending on the day and whatever he’s done to Ivy. Last week he was Bruno. Because we don’t talk about Bruno.

Last week Rowan referred to him as Caillou because he’s going bald and he acts like a whiny child.

It’s funny because it’s true. Derek is not good to Ivy, and we’re all just basically waiting for her to see what we see. And yeah. We might as well shelve ourselves right between thrillers and tragic comedies.