Page 27 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
And then slowly, carefully, giving me every chance to pull away, he lifts his hand. My pulse stutters, and his thumb hovers for half a breath before brushing the corner of my mouth, rough and callused, the scrape of his skin making my stomach clench.
“You had frosting,” he murmurs, voice husky, intimate, like a secret only for me.
His other fingers sweep across my cheek to dust away a smear of flour. Heat blooms in the trail he leaves behind, my skin tingling, my whole body tuned to him. I should move. I don’t. I can’t.
The air thickens, humming, pulling us closer. My throat tightens on a swallow, my pulse tripping fast and wild. I want to lean in, to taste the salt and heat of his skin where his thumb lingers at the corner of my mouth.
His eyes lift, locking on mine. Dark. Serious. And then, almost without realizing, he leans closer, the space between us shrinking, smaller, smaller. My breath catches, and I sway toward him, helpless against the pull.
For a heartbeat, it feels inevitable. Like we’re seconds from crossing a line we can’t uncross.
But then he blinks and his hand falls. The moment snaps, leaving the air buzzing, charged with everything we didn’t do.
I sit frozen, skin still sparking where his fingers touched, chest tight from holding in a breath I didn’t even realize I’d taken.
And I know it. We’re teetering on the edge of something dangerous. Something I might not want to resist.
Before I can speak, he leans in just slightly, his voice low and familiar, sending a shiver right through me. “Remember when we used to play hide and seek in this house?”
The memory rushes back so vividly it makes me ache. The two of us as kids, barefoot and reckless, slipping behind curtainsand under tables, darting through the garden when we thought my mom wasn’t watching.
“You used to hide under the window seat,” I murmur, smiling at the memory.
“And you always hid in the pantry,” he says, smirking. “It made you smell like cinnamon.”
“You cheated,” I remind him. “Youalwaysfound me first.”
His grin softens into something tender, nostalgic. “Yeah. I did.”
For a moment, it feels like no time has passed at all. Just two kids again, laughing in the kitchen, playing games no one else quite understood.
I clear my throat, trying to dispel the spell that’s weaving itself between us like steam from a kettle. “Do you…do you have more bottles?” I ask, teasing now, remembering the messages in a bottle he’s been leaving at the bookstore ladder.
His answering grin is slow and mischievous. “Why? Are you finally ready to admit that you like my messages?”
And with that, he turns back to his mixing bowl as though we didn’t just share something soft and fragile. But my chest is still tight, breath catching when he shoots me another of those sideways glances that say he remembers everything.
By nightfall, the contest is over (I win, obviously), and the kitchen is a disaster zone of dirty dishes and half-eaten slices of pie, pumpkin bread, and crumble.
We all pitch in and get it right again, then wrap my mom in a group hug before heading out. Tate left a little quicker than the rest of us, and I can’t help but wonder why. What did he have planned for the evening?
The thought sneaks in that maybe he has a date. Maybe that’s why he was in such a hurry. The idea needles at me, sharp and unwelcome. It shouldn’t matter. He’s free to see whoever he wants. But the twist in my stomach says otherwise.
I shake it off, forcing a smile as I step into the cool night air. Still, the question lingers, uninvited: who is he rushing to, if not me? It’s been one of those days that fills the soul, and yet somehow, the moment I let myself think of him with someone else, I feel unsettled, restless.
I’m walking home alone, scarf pulled up against the evening chill, cheeks still warm from cider and laughter. The windows of Wisteria Books & Brews glow softly, lanterns swaying outside the door as a breeze rustles the mums on the stoop.
I step inside, listening to the buzz of the fridge. But something catches my eye immediately.
At the top of the ladder leading up to my little attic apartment, balanced carefully on the top rung is another bottle. I don’t know how or when he got it in here, but he did.
I pause at the bottom step, heart hammering.
The moonlight catches the glass, making it gleam. Inside, there’s a slip of paper rolled up tight, just like before.
I don’t open it. Not yet.
Behind me, the town is quiet except for the creak of the harbor swings and the soft chime of wind bells from the apothecary next door. Wisteria Cove feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting, watching.
