Page 25 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
And for a ridiculous moment, I wonder if he wants a family of his own. We never talked about that. We were young and just getting started in life when he up and left.
Then the thought hits me sideways, unexpected and sharp. The idea of him like this… but with someone else. Some other woman leaning her head on his shoulder, laughing at Junie’s antics. I blink and look away quickly, heat blooming in my cheeks.
“Ivy,” I mutter under my breath, “is it bad that the thought of him doing this with someone else makes me feel…feral?”
Her laugh is immediate and delighted. “Bad? No, that’s just the Maren gene kicking in. We’re professionally feral.”
I elbow her, and we both dissolve into giggles just as Junie runs past us, wielding her plastic sword and dragging Tate behind her.
“That man,” Ivy says, shaking her head, “he’s dangerously hot. Too bad he doesn’t have a brother.”
I snort. “Where’s Temu this evening?”
Ivy groans, though she’s still laughing. “You’re impossible. Derek’s not…he’s notthatbad. At least not all the time.”
“Wow,” I say, sipping my coffee. “Glowing endorsement. You should put that on his dating profile.”
Ivy rolls her eyes playfully, “Why are you calling him Temu?”
“Because Derek is not what you ordered,” I tell her. Earlier today he told her to go to the movie by herself because he made other plans. He constantly disappoints her and leaves her hanging.
Ivy changes the subject, “How’s the festival planning coming along? Still biting his head off at every meeting?”
“Yeah, well,” I sigh dramatically, “we’re just now at the point where I can be in the same room with him without committing murder.”
“Coexistence is the first step to co-parenting,” Ivy teases. “Even if the only child you share is this festival.”
Before I can answer, my mom appears with two cups of cider, her silver hair braided back and a mischievous sparkle in hereyes. She’s set up her “tarot card” tent just beyond the cider station tonight with candles flickering inside, velvet cushions strewn about. Half the town will rotate through her space before the credits roll on tonight’s movie.
She hands me a cider and leans in conspiratorially. “Your heart knows before your mind catches up,” she says, tapping her temple gently.
I groan. “Speaking of…nice ambush with getting Tate and me to co-chair the festival, Mom.”
Her grin is unapologetic. “What can I say? I’m just looking out. A little shared purpose never hurt anyone.”
“Shared purpose,” I repeat flatly. “More like shared punishment.”
She clinks her cup to mine. “All part of the process, darling. Just remember, you’re your mother’s daughter. Stubborn and smart. And,” she winks, “your heart knows what it wants. Even if your mouth hasn’t figured out how to say it.”
I can’t help but laugh, even as I feel that flutter again, the one that rises whenever Tate’s near. I glance back toward him instinctively, and of course he’s watching me. Not a casual glance, either.
His gaze is warm and steady, like he’s been waiting to catch my eye all night. He tips his chin up in a silent greeting, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Ugh. Stupid gorgeous Tate. I squeeze my legs together and try to look away, but it’s really hard.
“Stop staring at him,” Ivy stage-whispers beside me.
“You stop staring at him,” I whisper back.
We both laugh again, arms linked as we sip our cider.
Around us, Wisteria Cove hums with life and charm. This is our place, a town where everyone knows each other’s business, but also drops off soup when you’re sick and leaves flowers on your kitchen table just because. There’s comfort in thepredictability: Friday nights mean movie nights where we all catch up. Saturday mornings mean farmer’s markets and dinner nights with friends if you’re lucky enough to get an invite. There’s something about living here that makes the seasons feel special, like fall isn’t just a season, but an experience. I have friends from other places, and when they visit, they say they’ve never seen anything like it.
Pumpkins line the steps of the bookstore. Candles flicker in every window. The bakery down the block is debuting its maple pecan loaf tonight, and I can already see a line forming. I’ll be grabbing one for myself to have with my tea tonight when I read in bed.
And here I am, sitting with my sister, cider warming my hands, my cheeks flushed from the cool air and, I’ll admit it: maybe from the way Tate Holloway keeps looking at me, too.
“Do you think he knows?” I murmur, watching him chase after Junie again, this time pretending to limp dramatically as she “attacks” him with her plastic sword.
