Page 8 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

Tate

“ I ’ve told you, Tate, we’re buying a vacation home,” my mother says, her voice crisp enough to cut glass.

I pace the living room, thumb pressed tight against my phone, my bare feet making slow, restless tracks across the cool wood floor. “Yeah,” I say, because I’m not sure what else she wants from me.

She doesn’t ask about the house or the boat. Doesn’t ask how I’m settling back into Wisteria Cove. Just keeps talking about her new husband, stepkids, and their perfect lives.

I drop onto the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees, and stare at the framed photo of the harbor on the wall from back when the water felt like home, before everything got complicated. My jaw tightens until it aches, a dull throb spreading up to my temples.

She laughs at something she’s saying about dinner parties and spa days, a sound too bright, too far away. It lands in my chest like a thud. Heavy and cold.I can’t remember the last time she asked about me or if I was happy.

When I finally hang up after she's rattled on about everything in her life, the quiet slams into me. I head down to the one place that feels right to me. The place where it all makes sense. And the place where I can still feel my dad. The Wisteria Cove harbor. The dock creaks under me, the ropes groan, and Dad’s old boat sits there, beat-up and tired.

Just like me. April Showers. Named after my mom.

He was so proud of that boat, and he loved her so much.

And it doesn't seem right to still have her name on something so important to him.

Not when my dad and I are no longer important to her.

She has a new family and has made clear what is important to her now.

I stand slowly, jam my hands into my jacket pockets, and start walking.

The harbor path stretches out in front of me, winding along the shore where the salt air cuts sharply.

The town is quiet this time of day, just a few gulls circling lazily above and the occasional sound of waves slapping against the rocks.

I don’t know where I'm going. I just need to move and to shake the lonely ache out of my chest.

Then I see her. Willa. She’s coming toward me on the path, arms crossed tight over her chest, head down like she’s lost in her own world. But even from a distance, I feel it, that invisible tether between us tightening with every step.

She slows when she spots me. For a second, I think she’s going to turn around. But she doesn’t. She keeps walking until we’re side by side, close enough that I catch the faintest trace of her warm skin, soap, something soft and familiar that nearly undoes me.

Neither of us speaks.

We fall into step, walking in silence as the harbor stretches out beside us, mist curling over the water. The air feels heavy with unspoken things. The wind tugs at her hair, pulling it loose from the knot at the back of her head, and she doesn’t bother fixing it.

When we reach the overlook, we both come to a stop. The water below glints silver in the fading light, boats rocking gently at their moorings.

She stares straight ahead out at the water when she finally says it. “Why?”

That one word is enough to knock the breath out of me.

I look at her, but she doesn’t meet my gaze. I know exactly what she’s asking. Why did I leave? Why didn’t I say goodbye? Why now?

I clear my throat. “I couldn’t be who you needed me to be. And I couldn’t stay here. Not then.”

Her jaw tightens, and she finally turns to me, eyes flashing with hurt and anger. “Then why are you back, Tate?”

I don’t have a good answer. None of them feels right or enough.

Before I can speak, she takes a step back, her voice sharp and breaking. “You left without saying anything. No calls. Nothing. You could have sent a message in a bottle, Tate. Anything. But you didn’t.”

Her anger hits me square in the chest, but underneath it, I feel the hurt radiating off of her. The crack in her voice nearly shatters me.

I take a step toward her, closing the space between us. She stiffens, but she doesn’t move away. I can feel her breath now, short and fast, see the way her lashes lower when my hand almost reaches for her.

“I know I hurt you,” I say quietly. “I'm sorry. You deserved better than that.”

“Damn right I did,” she snaps, but her voice is softer this time.

The wind picks up, swirling around us, carrying the sharp scents of salt and wood smoke. I want to say more. I want to tell her everything I never said before I left. But all I can do is look at her, the girl I left behind, now very much a woman, beautiful and burning with fury.

Somehow, impossibly, she steps closer. Just enough that her hand brushes against mine, fingers grazing like a spark catching kindling, and for one breathless second, neither of us pulls away.

The pull between us is magnetic, inevitable.

My heart thunders, and I tilt my head down, just enough to catch her scent, to breathe her in like she’s oxygen after years underwater.

Her gaze flicks up, meets mine, and I swear she sways toward me.

And then she pushes me, a firm hand on my chest, shoving me back a step. “No,” she says, her voice shaking. “I’m not doing this.”

The invisible wall that feels like it's made of steel slams back into place between us.

The warmth between us snaps like a rubber band.

She turns on her heel and starts walking fast, her boots crunching over gravel, her hair whipping behind her.

I watch her go, chest aching in a way that feels familiar and fresh all at once.

But just before she disappears around the bend, she hesitates and stops. Turns her head slightly, as if she might look back and say something.

My breath catches.Then she shakes her head and keeps going, disappearing into the fog.

I stand there for a long moment. The wind cuts colder now, the harbor quiet but for the creak of the boats below.

I sink down onto the bench by the overlook, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. What the hell am I doing?

The fog drifts in thicker now, curling around my legs, heavy and damp. And just as I think I should get up, go home, figure out what the hell to do next, I spot something on the bench beside me.

A single maple leaf, bright red, lying there like a sign. Like a message. I think about what she said about not even sending a message in a bottle.

I pick it up, turning it between my fingers. Yeah. We’re nowhere near done.

I head straight for Dad’s old boat, its weathered hull like a ghost waiting for me. The rust on the railings is worse than I remember, the lines are tangled, and everything needs work. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn here tonight, because fixing this wreck feels easier than fixing myself.

I think about what happened that night. My dad went out with her dad to help and never came back. I think about what if he hadn't gone. What if he were here right now, working on the boat with me like we'd planned?

I roll up my sleeves, grab a brush, and get to work.

Salt and rust flake off under my hands, but the ache inside me doesn’t budge.

Each stroke brings back memories, like Dad standing right where I am now, barking orders, laughing when I tripped over the lines, his voice gruff but never cruel.

He wanted to teach me everything he knew.

I pause, brush my hand over the weathered wood, then step into the tiny cabin where the smell still reminds me of him.

Salt, diesel, and old cigarettes. Taped to the wall by the bunk is a sun-faded photo I left there years ago: Dad at the helm, arms crossed, squinting into the sun.

He looks larger-than-life and completely unreachable. He loved being out at sea.

I lean my shoulder against the frame and murmur, “I don’t know if I can do this right, Dad, but I’m trying.”

And God, I am trying.

The sound of boots on the dock snaps me out of it. I turn to see old Pete leaning casually, grinning like he’s caught me talking to ghosts.

“You’re doing fine, kid,” he says, tipping his cap back. “That boat always needed a stubborn hand.”

I huff out a laugh. “I don’t know if stubborn’s gonna be enough.”

“Oh, nobody is more stubborn than you,” Pete ambles closer, hands in his pockets. “But, you always had a good heart. Your dad would be so proud of the man you've become today.”

His words land heavy. I nod and am grateful for them.

He claps me on the shoulder, warm and solid. “Don’t work yourself to death tonight. Harbor’ll still be here in the morning.”

I stay another hour, scrubbing until my arms ache and my fingers sting. The deck looks cleaner than it has in years, but inside, I still feel like a mess. The tide laps softly at the hull as I gather up a battered bucket of tools and call it for the night.

On my walk back through town, I catch sight of Mrs. Ellery on her porch. The basket in her arms is almost as big as she is, loaded with pumpkins, mums, and what looks like half the produce section from the Wisteria Cove Grocery store.

She’s balancing it awkwardly, teetering on the top step, and I don’t even think before setting my bucket down and jogging over.

“Here,” I say quietly, taking the basket from her arms. “Let me help you with that.”

She peers up at me, sharp-eyed as ever despite the soft knit shawl wrapped around her shoulders. “Well, look at this. Tate Holloway, back from wherever you ran off to. Thought you’d forgotten all of us.”

I chuckle under my breath, adjusting the basket in my arms. “Nope, I didn't forget.”

She unlocks her front door and steps inside, waving me to follow.

Her porch smells like dried herbs, and her tiny front room is exactly as I remember it, overstuffed chairs, stacks of books, knick-knacks crowding every surface.

When I was a kid, she always had fresh cookies for all the neighbor kids.

I set the basket down gently. “You always decorate early for fall.”

“Early?” she snorts. “It’s never too early, Tate. Town’s late by my standards.”

I smile. “Fair enough.”

She eyes me carefully, crossing her arms. “Back for good this time?”

The question hangs between us longer than it should. I want to say yes. I want to believe it. But, I also don't want to let anyone down again if it doesn't work out here.

“Trying to be,” I finally say, because it’s the only answer I’ve got.

She softens, patting my arm gently. “Well, this place has a way of making you stay…or breaking your heart all over again.”

The truth in her words makes my chest tighten.

She doesn’t ask more, simply offers a knowing smile before disappearing into the kitchen. I take my cue and step back out onto the porch, closing the door softly behind me.

The walk back to my house is quiet, the streets empty and lined with flickering lanterns strung between lampposts, and the scent of wood smoke drifts on the breeze, mingling with the briny tang of the harbor air. The whole town feels like it’s holding its breath, and maybe so am I.

I can’t stop thinking about Willa. The sharpness in her voice, the fury in her eyes, but also the way her fingers brushed mine. The heat between us existed even when she was telling me to go to hell.

I glance back toward the harbor path, my boots scuffing to a halt. The place where we stood earlier feels charged, like I could almost see her standing there again, hair blowing wild in the wind, mouth tight with anger and something else she won’t say.

I shove my hands in my pockets and exhale slowly. I left this place thinking I could outrun all of it, my grief, my guilt, my feelings for her.

But tonight proves it: I outran nothing. It was all waiting for me right here.

I walk the rest of the way home slower than before, each step weighted with the truth I can’t avoid anymore.

I’m still in love with her. Always have been. I always will be.