Page 8 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
He gives me a look that says we both know damn well I'm not fine.
As the coffee brews a fresh pot, I run through what I can pull together for him from what we have on hand.
“Turkey sandwich with cranberry relish?” I ask briskly, reaching for the bread.
Tate nods and says quietly. “Sounds good. Thank you.”
Before I can say another word, the back door swings open and my mom sweeps in, a gust of cinnamon-scented chaos trailing behind her. Her velvet shawl is wrapped loosely aroundher shoulders, long silver earrings swaying, and her hands are full of herbs she’s undoubtedly been “foraging” for again.
Her sharp gaze flicks from me to Tate in an instant. My mom misses nothing. Her intuition is almost spot-on. “Well, well,” she says, a sly smile curving her lips as she saunters forward. “If it isn’t the prodigal son home from the sea.”
Tate laughs, a real, full-bodied laugh that pulls a startled glance from me because I can’t remember the last time I heard it, much less directed at my mother. But the two of them always had a special bond. His mom April wasn’t always the best mother to him, and he got what he needed at our house when he needed it. My mom has always loved Tate.
“Lilith,” he says warmly, pulling off his ball cap and raking a hand through that too-long hair. “Still terrorizing the town, I see.”
“Always,” she replies, stepping right up to the counter next to him, leaning her elbows on the wood. Her bracelets jingle with every slight movement as she tilts her head and studies him in that way she has, like she can read straight through your ribcage into your heart. It makes most people uncomfortable, but not Tate. He smiles at her and tilts his head at her as if he’s giving her permission.
“You look tired, Tate Holloway,” she says softly, no pretense now, no teasing. “More tired than you should be. What’ve you been running from all these years?”
I freeze at the kitchen counter, my breath caught because…leave it to her to ask the exact question I didn’t dare ask myself. She never shies away from asking the questions everyone else is thinking. Her inside thoughts usually come out to play.
But Tate doesn’t bristle or brush her off or retreat. Instead, he exhales slowly and taps his knuckles once on the counter, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. “Every damn thing,” he says quietly.
She hums and nods, not smug or satisfied, just understanding. She reaches across and squeezes his forearm gently, her bangles clinking. “Well,” she says after a pause, straightening again with a small smile, “you’ll need food in your belly before you face your demons. And my daughter makes an excellent turkey sandwich.”
“Already working on it,” I mutter, half amused, half horrified at how easily they’re slipping into this old rhythm like nothing happened.
But what he said gutted me. His vulnerability was raw and unexpected.
By the time I set the plate in front of him, he’s settled in like he’s never been gone.
Lilith perches beside him, chatting easily about whatever town gossip she’s picked up this morning, her laugh low and warm. And Tate…he’s laughing too.
Not just polite chuckles, but real, deep, genuine laughter, the kind that used to curl low in my stomach, back when I let it affect me, back when we were kids, and I thought we had forever.
And it truly stuns me how easily he fits back in here, as if these past two years were nothing more than a brief detour. Like this is still his world. Like I’m still his Willa. Only I’m not. He made it very clear when he never reached out during the past few years that I didn’t mean anything to him.
He sips his coffee and wipes his fingers on the napkin I’ve provided, leaning in to say something that makes my mom snort with laughter.
I hover behind the counter, watching them, arms crossed, pretending to wipe a non-existent smudge from the espresso machine, heart pounding even as I remind myself that I will not get pulled back in by that smile and those green eyes. Not a chance.
But God help me, he looks really good sitting there with his broad shoulders hunched slightly over the counter, calloused fingers curled around the mug like this seat’s been waiting for him all this time.
And somehow, that infuriates me more than anything. Because if he feels so comfortable here now, why didn’t he stay, then?
Chapter 4
Tate
Idon’t know how many screws I’ve driven into this damn porch today, but I can tell you one thing: none of them are fixing what really needs fixing. Not the thing between me and Willa. I didn’t think coming back here would be easy, but I didn’t expect her to be so angry and indifferent. She looked like she was seething yesterday. Lilith and her sisters were happy to see me, but Willa definitely was not.
I pause, leaning back on my heels to wipe sweat off my brow with my forearm. The sun is relentless, baking the tops of my shoulders on this warmer-than-usual fall day. My cap is turned backwards, hair damp beneath it, and my shirt’s long gone, draped somewhere over the railing I’m trying to replace.
The boards creak beneath my boots, and I remember her laughter right here, years ago. I remember the paint splattered across her cheek when we first fixed up this porch together, the way she teased me about my terrible brush strokes. That light in her eyes. God, I was stupid to think walking away was the right thing to do. I left before we could ever really be something. She was my best friend. She was supposed to be my everything. We both knew it. And I threw it all away because I was scared.
My drill stills, and I can almost hear her saying, “You promised you’d never leave, Tate.”
Yeah, I broke that promise so thoroughly, I’m surprised this porch didn’t fall apart in my absence.
