Page 7 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)
Outside, another tourist couple poses for a selfie under the bookstore sign like we’re some glossy travel guide stop, and for half a second my mood wants to turn grumpy.
But I catch myself. That’s not fair. They’re sweet, smiling, holding onto each other like the world is something to celebrate.
People like them keep the lights on here, spreading pictures of Wisteria Books & Brews across their feeds and drawing more curious souls into my shop.
Normally, I’d be out there waving, maybe even offering to snap the photo for them.
I love that part, the steady stream of people who walk through my door with stories from places I may never see.
Usually, it fills me up. Today, though? Today it feels like work.
And I know exactly why. My emotions are all jumbled, turned upside down by a certain broody fisherman and the meddling chorus of townsfolk who seem more invested in my love life than I am.
It’s unfair, I know, to let my mood color how I see people who are only here to enjoy themselves.
And realizing that makes me crankier still, because friendliness is usually effortless for me.
Warmth is supposed to be my gift, not something I have to summon.
So, I take a breath, shake it off, and remind myself: none of this is their fault. My chaos is mine to carry.
“Willa, you’ve become one of the town’s famous landmarks,” Ivy says, grinning. “Right between the lighthouse and the saltwater taffy shop.”
I turn and smile, “I am glad people are coming here.”
“And you’re going to need to order more books,” Ivy says, reaching out to tug gently on the sleeve of my cardigan. “Besides...we all know you’ve been extra cranky because a certain broody fisherman is back.”
My stomach flips. “Excuse me?” I say, pretending not to be bothered.
Rowan leans back dramatically in her chair. “It’s so obvious. Maybe you should just kiss and make up, or we’ll have to shelve your love life in the dramatic works section.”
I open my mouth to argue, but before I can, my mom sweeps into the conversation like she’s been lurking in the shadows, just waiting to drop her next bomb.
“Speaking of Tate,” she says, balancing another fresh tray of pumpkin scones like some flour-dusted witch, “He’ll probably stop by. When I dropped by the harbor earlier, with the scones you refused to deliver, he mentioned needing a book to read.”
“Mom! Stop it,” I groan. I doubt that is true. She's just messing with me.
“What? Just helping you sell books,” she says innocently.
There’s absolutely nothing innocent about it.
I’m stacking a new shipment of candles on the front table when I hear the bell over the door jingle. Before I can even look up, Rowan's voice floats in, syrupy and smug. “Well, well, well…speak of the flannel-wearing devil.”
I don’t have to turn around to know who she’s talking about. I can feel him behind me, like gravity just shifted slightly toward the front of the shop.
“Who?” I ask anyway, feigning indifference as I straighten a row of amber glass candle jars labeled Witch’s Hearth.
I glance up, and he's sliding onto a stool. His eyes meet mine and soften. “Hey, Willa.”
My mom joins in from her usual perch at the counter, warm and teasing. “He’s got that whole lumberjack grump thing going for him now, doesn’t he?”
My cheeks heat instantly, but I keep my back to them. “Mom, he can hear you. Do you all have anything better to do?” I mumble, adjusting the candle display like it’s suddenly the most important task in the world.
“Oh, we’re doing exactly what we should be doing,” Ivy pipes up from the other end of the shop, smirking. “Speaking of...it's time for my break. You'll need to help Tate with his order.”
I straighten my apron and head over to the coffee shop and face him.
His Red Sox cap is pulled low, beard a little more scruffy than the last time I saw him, sleeves shoved up to reveal those infuriatingly perfect forearms I could run my fingers up.
He’s leaning against the counter like he owns the place, and despite myself, my eyes linger a little too long on the way his jeans sit low on his hips, and the hint of sun at his collarbone.
He takes off his cap and runs his fingers through his hair, still damp from a shower.
My mind wanders to him in the shower.
Get it together, Willa.
My mom grins at him, ever the instigator. “So, Tate, what’s new since you’ve been back?”
He just shrugs, easy and casual. “Not much. Buying a truck and fixing up my dad’s old fishing boat. Planning to work it again.”
My heart drops when he says this.It’s like a light switch flips.
“Oh, so you decided to stick around?” Lilith asks.
He shrugs, but his eyes never leave me, as if he’s waiting to see how I’ll respond.
The words hit me like a cold splash of harbor water. Fixing up his dad’s boat. Working it again.
Suddenly, my throat goes dry, and a pit opens in my stomach.
Because I know exactly what that means.Long days, early mornings.
Cold, choppy seas. Not everyone who goes out comes back.
Just like our dads. But I say nothing.I shove the worry deep down, like I always do, tuck it away behind a carefully constructed smile.
I turn toward him, keeping my expression neutral, cool, even bored, and force myself into “regular customer” mode.
“Let me know if you need anything,” I say deliberately casual, my tone light but my insides twisting.
He lifts his chin in acknowledgment, his gaze catching mine for half a second, just long enough for my stomach to flip before I look away. He wanders across the room to browse the books but him being here has me feeling like an awkward teenager.
My mom leans across the counter, chin in her hand. “He’s all grown up, Willa. When did that happen?”
“Didn’t notice,” I say flatly, moving behind the register and pretending to rearrange receipts that absolutely do not need rearranging.
But of course, Rowan can’t leave it alone.
“She’s lying,” she singsongs, bumping my hip with hers as she slides in next to me. “She noticed, and she's been noticing. Haven’t you, Willa?”
I grit my teeth, keeping my face carefully blank. “Nope.”
Ivy snorts from the corner. ‘You’re practically vibrating, sis. You haven’t looked this flustered since you realized someone bent the spine on your favorite book, and you still haven't been able to forgive them.’”
My mom chuckles. “He’s got her all tangled up, and he doesn’t even realize it.”
And that’s the worst part.Because he does know it. I've seen it in the way he looks at me.
He’s here like he hasn’t haunted my thoughts every single day since he left, like he didn’t just casually announce that he’s going back out on the water.
Like that doesn’t terrify me in ways I can’t even explain to them, to anyone.
We live in a fishing town. People work the boats here.
And up until now it wasn't something that was close to me anymore.
Until he announced that and now, I don't even know what to do with that. I know he just got back from fishing.
Old Pete and I had a secret pact. He’d tell me if anything was wrong. And he would always just say, “All is well.” But that doesn’t mean I didn’t worry. I never stopped worrying.
So I do what I always do, I ignore him.
I ring up a customer's coffee as if it’s the most pressing task in the world. “Here you go,” I say cheerfully, handing the change over, though my heart is pounding hard enough to shake my ribs.
The words stick in my chest.Too late, I think.I’ve been trying to convince myself for years that he doesn’t matter. But he does.
Across the room, Tate’s busy browsing the shelves, running his fingers absently along the spines like he has nowhere else to be. Like he’s home again and doesn’t realize he’s making every nerve in my body feel like it’s on fire.
I let my gaze flick toward him one last time, and my heart sinks all over again. Because even now, even after all this time, I’m still tangled up in him.
But I won’t show it. I can’t show it. Instead, I paste on a smile, turn back to my sisters, and toss out the only armor I have left: sarcasm. “You all need hobbies,” I say breezily, though my insides feel anything but breezy.
They laugh, and the teasing continues, but my mind is far from the chatter.
Because that pit in my stomach? It’s not going anywhere. Not when he’s going back out on the water.
And not when my heart is clearly too stupid to understand that loving a fisherman means learning how to live with that dread. So, I'll just keep trying my hardest not to love him.