Page 104 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
“Open it.”
I peel back the brown paper to reveal a thick, worn recipe book. The cover is soft with age, the pages full of notes in the margins and smudges of flour.
“The Maren Family Spellbook,” she says with a wink. “It’s not just food. It’s memories and magic and a family treasure my mother passed down to me when I was ready. Now I’m giving it to you. I have one for your sisters that I made when they’re ready, too.”
Tears prick my eyes. “Thanks, Mom.”
“For when you make your own magic,” she adds, giving Tate a meaningful look, “now that you have your own home.”
Later, we leave Cobweb at the bookstore. We check in with Rowan and Finn, who are deep in discussions about floor samples for Salt & Root.
Tate and I take a walk along the harbor. The bench where Old Pete likes to sit is dusted with snow, but we brush it off and sit close, sipping our coffees that I brought from the bookstore.
The water is calm today, the fishing boats bob gently, and the gulls are quiet. The world feels paused, like it’s giving us a moment.
Tate slides his arm around me. “I was thinking about the boat,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Donna told me I could do whatever I wanted with it. I was thinking about doing tours. Maybe even one of those harbor cruises with cider and stories. Something fun that makes people fall in love with this place the way we did.”
I rest my head on his shoulder. “You’d be great at that.”
He presses a kiss to my hair. “Maybe I could call it The Second Chance.”
I laugh, squeezing his hand. “You’re getting soft, Holloway.”
“Just trying to keep up with my hopeless romantic of a girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend, huh?” I tease and nudge him.
His hand slides into mine, and he holds it tight. “Yeah, my girlfriend. What do you want me to call you?”
“Girlfriend is fine.” I smile and lean my head on his shoulder.
We sit in silence for a moment, watching the world shimmer with frost and fading light.
“This isn’t a dream, right?” I whisper.
Tate turns to me, eyes warm and sure. “No. It’s real.”
Tate’s hand is warm in mine, gloved fingers curled around my mittened ones, and even though the wind bites our cheeks, I feel flushed with something warmer than the December air.
“This one?” I ask, stopping in front of a tall, slightly crooked pine.
Tate squints. “It’s a little lopsided.”
“Exactly,” I say. “It’s got personality.”
He chuckles and gives the trunk a tap. “All right. You’re the boss, bookstore girl.”
“I’ll remind you of that next time you try to argue about where the garland goes.”
He leans in and kisses my forehead, then hoists the tree over his shoulder like some kind of lumberjack Santa Claus. “Deal.”
Back at the cabin, we crank up the Christmas playlist on the old record player with Bing Crosby crackling under the needle and Cobweb weaves between our feet like a tiny, judgmental supervisor.
The cabin smells like pine and cinnamon and warm cider. The fire crackles, and the snow outside thickens until it blurs the world beyond our frosted windows.
