Page 39 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
That’s when I notice how he looks. Really notice. Tate is drenched, water dripping from his hair, plastering the dark strands back from his forehead. His jacket clings to him, heavy with rain, and his shirt is soaked straight through, molding to every hard line of muscle underneath.
“God, you’re going to catch your death,” I say, grabbing another towel and rising to my feet. My voice comes out a little breathless. “Take that off.”
He blinks, startled. “What?”
“Your shirt.” I thrust the towel at him, heat blooming under my skin even as I force my tone to stay brisk. “You’re soaked through. Get it off before you freeze. I’ll grab one of the throws for you, and you can dry your jeans by the fire.”
For a moment he just watches me, rain still dripping from his lashes, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Then he obeys, peeling the shirt over his head in one slow, fluid motion.
And I nearly forget how to breathe.
His chest is broad, defined by years of hauling nets and ropes, every line of muscle cut and honed by hard work. A light dusting of hair spreads across his chest and narrows into a trail that disappears beneath his waistband, a path that makes my mouth go dry. My pulse hammers in my throat, traitorous and loud.
I toss him the throw blanket a little too quickly, trying to mask the way my hands shake. “Here. Warm up.”
He smirks faintly, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me, then drapes the blanket loosely around his shoulders. The firelight glances across his damp skin, gilding him in a way that feels unfair, like the universe is conspiring against me.
I look down at the kitten in my arms, clinging to the excuse of fussing over her so I don’t give in to the wild thought beating in my head because if I look up again, I might not be able to look away.
We sit there for a while, side by side on the rug in front of the fire, taking turns drying her off, whispering quiet encouragements like she’s a baby bird and we’re trying not to spook her. I warm some milk in a shallow dish, and Tate digs out an old box from the pantry and lines it with one of Lilith’s worn old towels.
We don’t speak much, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s easy, actually.
Eventually, when the kitten is dry and curled up near the fire, her tiny body rising and falling with each breath, I sit back against the couch, exhaling for what feels like the first time all night.
Tate stretches out beside me, legs long and damp jeans drying by the fire.
“So,” he says softly, watching the kitten. “What would you name her?”
I glance at him, already smiling. “Cobweb.”
He blinks. “Cobweb?”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “It’s witchy and perfect.”
He grins. “It fits.”
“I mean, look at her.” I point at the scruffy little creature, now snoring softly with her paws tucked under her chin. “She’s basically one of Lilith’s spells come to life.”
Tate laughs, full and deep, the kind of sound that burrows into your chest and makes a home there. “Cobweb,” he repeats. “Okay. I can get behind that.”
“She could live at the bookstore,” I say before I even think about it. “I've always wanted a bookstore cat. Maybe she’s a familiar and has witch energy, too.”
The second the words are out, I feel something shift in the air, like I said too much. Like I gave something away.But Tate doesn’t tease me.
He just looks at me with that steady, thoughtful expression of his, and says, “I think she'd love it there.”
The fire crackles.Cobweb sighs in her sleep and burrows against me even closer.
And suddenly, I feel it in my bones, that sense that maybe this isn’t just a one-night rescue mission. Maybe it’s something else entirely.
“Do you think you’ll really stay here this time?” I bite my lip nervously as the words tumble out of me before I can chicken out.
“Yeah. I wasn’t ready before. But I want this. I want all of this,” he says as he looks around and smiles.
“I used to think I didn’t want any of this anymore, either,” I admit quietly. “The town or the bookstore. When you left, all I saw were memories, and they weren't good. Maybe they can be good now.”
Tate doesn’t interrupt me; he just waits for me to finish. Like he always has, hanging on every word like he likes what I have tosay. And that is one of the things I've always loved about him. He is my person. He always wanted to hear what I had to say.
