Page 105 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
We decorate barefoot. Tate strings the lights while I unwrap more ornaments we’ve collected. A ceramic book. A little felt fish. A glittery ornament that saysFirst Christmas in the Cabin.We hang them slowly, laughing, kissing between each one.
“Careful,” I say as he reaches high for the top branch. “If you fall and break something, I’m not helping. I’ll just say ‘told you so’ while the paramedics take you away.”
“Spoken like a woman truly full of holiday spirit,” he deadpans.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I reply.
He grins down at me. “Luckiest man alive.”
Once the tree is glowing in the corner, lights twinkling against the dark wood walls, I head to the little table by the window where I’ve stashed a folder. Tate flops onto the couch, legs stretched out, one hand lazily stroking Cobweb’s fur.
I pull out a few sheets of paper, half-doodles, half-plans and hold them up.
“Okay,” I say, heart skipping a little. “Don’t laugh.”
Tate sits up, interested. “What is that?”
I hand him the sketches. “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I started thinking… what if your boat tours weren’t just tours? What if they were stories?”
He flips through the pages. My sketches are rough but full of heart, little flyers with waves and anchor illustrations, bookmarks with quotes and history snippets. One has a mockup of a flyer with the tagline:Wisteria Harbor Second Chance Tours: Where Every Journey Has a Story.
“You wrote all this?” he asks, voice quieter.
I nod. “I figured…you’d captain the boat, tell stories. Local legends, history, ghost tales. Maybe even a sunset poetry cruise if you're feeling brave.”
He snorts. “You want me to read poems to tourists?”
“No,” I grin. “But I might sell them to them.”
He flips the page again, then looks up at me. “This is…incredible.”
My throat tightens. “I just thought, if we’re building a life, maybe we start building the dream part, too.”
He pulls me into his lap and kisses me like I handed him the keys to something sacred. Like I opened the door to a home he didn’t know he was allowed to want.
But he just shakes his head and reaches into his flannel pocket. “No. It’s perfect.”
He pulls out a small, clear glass bottle. Tucked inside, rolled up with a bit of twine, is a tiny note.
I blink at him. “Tate…”
He shrugs, a little sheepish. “I’ve had this one ready for a while. Just waiting for the right moment.”
I uncork the bottle carefully and slide the note out with trembling fingers.
It reads:
“This time, I’m not drifting. I’m anchoring to you.”
Tears well instantly. I press the note to my heart, chest aching in the best way.
“You’re going to destroy me with these, Holloway,” I whisper.
“Good,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to my temple. “Because you ruined me first.”
I kiss him back, slow and sure and deep, and when we finally pull apart, the fire’s dimmed to glowing embers, and the tree sparkles beside us like something out of a snow globe.
We stay up late talking about the tour business, too excited to sleep about who we might hire in the spring to help, whether Marco would cater boat picnics, and if Old Pete could be talked into sharing his legendary sea stories.
