Page 41 of A Love Like Pumpkin Spice
Calm down, Nic. Deep breaths.
Pumpkin is wriggling in my hold, trying to climb into Henry’s arms, and I can’t blame her.
“I think we can set them down,” Henry suggests, and I quickly take a step back.
“Okay.” My voice is barely above a whisper, my heart beating so fast I’m afraid it’s about to jump out of my ribcage. Fuck.
This wasn’t planned. Romance wasn’t part of the “romanticizing life” plan I made for myself. But Lauren’s words keep repeating in my head, and I can’t help but wonder—is that a bad thing? I mean, I had my whole life planned before, and I know how that turned out. Will doing not-planned things lead to a different outcome?
Assoon as all eight paws touch the ground, the cats cautiously move toward each other. They walk in circles, trying to gauge the other. Before I know it, Cinnamon has Pumpkin in a loving headlock, grooming her while Pumpkin’s eyes are closed in bliss.
“Well, that worked out perfectly,” I joke with a nervous giggle, crossing my arms in front of my chest to stop them from reaching out to Henry.
“It did.” I can hear the grin in his voice before I even glance at him. “Still, check on them occasionally. If one gets annoyed, separate them for a while and keep them in different rooms until they’ve calmed down.”
“Okay,” I whisper with a nod and tilt my head, a grin tugging at my lips. “What about my ghost cat, though? I can’t exactly keep her out of a room.”
“I don’t know, maybe put salt in front of the room’s door?” he jokes and reaches for Jensen’s leash as he tries to approach, all of us leaving the living room. “Nope, buddy, let’s give them some bonding time. Out with you.”
“Aw, do you feel left out?” I ask Jensen, voice dripping with exaggerated sympathy, and he answers with a highawoo-woo!immediately trotting over to me when I crouch down to pet him.
“Let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll have bonding time with you.” Once we’re there, I turn around and look at Henry. “How do you feel about”—I open my fridge, grimacing when I realize it might hold a lot of food, but most of it is too complicated for my currently empty and impatient stomach—“mac and cheese?”
“Sounds perfect,” he says with a chuckle. “As long as you don’t judge me for going back for thirds.”
“No promises.” I smirk. “But I do admire a man who appreciates the finer things in life. Powdered cheese, for example.”
“Right?” His grin widens. “I almost thought you were trying to seduce me with your cooking skills. My mother warned me about women like you.”
“Careful, or I’ll make you help stir. That’s how it starts: you fall for the cook, thenboom. You’re stuck grating cheese forever.”
“I’d grate cheese for you.”
I clutch my heart, acting as if I’m blinking away tears. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
We both break into laughter, and suddenly, an invisible curtain has lifted, the negative mood from before melting off us faster than frost on a spring morning.
While I cook, he feeds his dog. When he’s done, he chops up a salad to go with the cheesy goodness, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s … nice. Sweet. Weirdly domestic.
The kind of too-good-to-be-true that makes you suspicious if you’ve ever watched one or three hundred true crime documentaries.
The future I always thought I wanted.
We eat together, but my mind won’t sit still. It keeps doing mental gymnastics, flipping back to Jay.
How on earth did I ever imagine that future with him? A guy who, sure, never said it outright, but definitely had thatwomen belong in the kitchenenergy—wrapped in polite smiles and “Babe, you’re just so good at this” excuses. How did I miss how unbalanced it all was?
And then—Henry dries the dishes. Just picks up a towel and goes for it. No need to ask nicely, no need to thank him extensively unless I want him to pout for the rest of the night.
When we head back to the living room, there’s this quiet question hanging between us, more fragile than a soap bubble—do I want him to go home?
The answer is no. I don’t.
“Do you want some dessert? I have some ice cream?” I offer awkwardly, wringing my hands. “I have salted caramel and pistachio. I was trying to get into this whole Dubai chocolate trend, but I don’t see it. Maybe I did it wrong, though I—”Stop, Nic. Take a deep breath.There it is. Rambling. I grimace, one of those tight, lopsided smiles that practically screams,well, that was too much.“Sorry.”
“I’d love pistachio ice cream,” he offers with a faint smile and follows me back into the kitchen. “I don’t think I ever asked, but how have you settled in here in Wayward Hollow?”
“I love it here,” I quickly assure him. “I mean, after the unexpected curveballs in the beginning, I was a little skeptical, but you know what? I think everything”—I wave my hand through the air while opening my freezer with the other one—“really turned out for the best, ultimately. No offense, Chaos,” I say more loudly as I close the door again, ice cream tub in hand.
