Page 7 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
His broad shoulders fill out a worn flannel shirt that’s rolled up at the sleeves, revealing strong, tan forearms. Jeans, faded and soft, molded perfectly to lean hips. Boots scuffed from years at sea, planted squarely on my not-yet-swept floorboards.
My first thought is, damn him. He looks good.
My second thought is, No. Absolutely not. I am not letting him just waltz back in here after treating me like that and then looking like this.
And my third thought is completely inappropriate and will not be named.
The air feels thick, electric, as he lifts his gaze and meets mine, those green eyes locking on me like no time has passed at all, like I’m the same girl I was when he left.
But I’m not. I built this place. I built a life. It’s not like it was before, with the girl waiting on the dock for a boy who never came back. Tate is grown now, and so am I. We’re not kids anymore. We’re adults with lives. I don’t even know him.
His mouth tips into the barest shadow of a smile, just the faintest curl at the corner of his lips, enough to send my stomach flipping even though I do not want it to.
“Hey, Willa,” he says, low, rough, and soft all at once. Like that’s all he has to say. Like those two words can just smooth over two years of absence.
I square my shoulders automatically, armor snapping into place, and give him a slow once-over, deliberately unimpressed.
“Well,” I say coolly, even though my pulse is racing so fast, “look what the tide dragged back in.”
Ivy lets out an audible gasp-squeak behind me, but I don’t break eye contact with Tate. Because I can’t, he’s standing there, flesh and blood and scruff and flannel and boots, right in the middle of this life I built without him.
“Place looks nice,” he says, letting his gaze drift slowly around the shop like he’s trying to memorize it. “I hardly recognize it from when you opened.”
His expression softens as he takes it all in the books, the mismatched chairs, the autumn garlands, the candlelight, the warmth. I wonder what he’s thinking.
“That’s because you haven’t been here,” I state the obvious, crossing my arms as I lean against the counter, heart hammering, voice clipped and steady.
The silence between us stretches and feels electric. Like static crackles between us. The tension is so thick.
Then he nods, slow and measured, that tiny smile flickering again like he’s not sure if he should smile at all.“Guess I deserve that,” he says.
Rowan clears her throat behind me, breaking the moment just slightly.“We’ll, uh… leave you to it,” she says, rising gracefully from her stool and grabbing Ivy by the arm.
I glare at both of them. Traitors.
Ivy, of course, is grinning wildly, practically vibrating with delight.“Good luck,” she stage-whispers as Rowan drags her toward the back door.
The door clicks shut behind them, leaving a silence that feels heavier than it should, broken only by the faint murmur of the wind rattling the windows and the soft hum of the ice machine. And just like that, it’s only me and Tate.Alone.My mom is in theback somewhere, but knowing her, she left me to my fate with Tate, too.
Tate clears his throat, shifts his weight, then tips his head toward the chalkboard menu.
“Are you still open for dinner?” he asks casually, like we haven’t just been staring each other down as though we’re in the middle of a Western showdown.
I stare at him, weighing my options, but deep down, there’s no real choice. I could never send him away. Not when I still see the grief lingering inside the man, the one who lost everything.
“And I’d love a coffee, if you've got any. Black.”
Black, of course. Just like he drank before; that much is the same, at least. I’m sure there’s so much about him I don’t know anymore.
I grab a mug from the rack, forcing my hands to stay steady as I set it beneath the spout.
“Black,” I echo, glancing over my shoulder with a dry look that I hope doesn’t reveal my nerves. “Like your soul.”
That earns a low chuckle from him, warm and rough, and it does something awful to me, makes my pulse skip, makes the air between us feel too familiar, too easy, too much like…before.
“Fair,” he says. “I see you're still mad.”
“Nope,” I clip. “I'm fine.”
