Page 106 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
Tate lays back on the couch, one arm around me, the other gesturing at the ceiling like he’s already dreaming it into reality.
“I could take people around the harbor,” he says. “Tell them about the old lighthouse keeper who fell in love with the baker’s daughter. Or the sea captain who left a bottle in the waves for his wife every full moon.”
“And I’ll sell bookmarks in the shop,” I say. “And maybe write up some little booklets to go with the tours.”
Tate grins, eyes sparkling in the firelight. “Willa Maren Holloway, storyteller of the sea.”
“Willa Maren Holloway?” I tease.
He shrugs. “Just seeing how it feels to say.” He laughs and pulls me in again.
And when we finally head to bed, the tree glowing in the corner, Cobweb curled at our feet, and dreams of a new kind of future dancing behind our eyelids, I know this isn’t just another chapter.
It’s the prologue of a brand-new book. And we’re writing it together.
Epilogue
Tate
Let me tell you something.
This boat? This was once my father’s pride and joy. Back then, it smelled like diesel and regret, creaked like it hated its own existence, and had more rust and fatigue than anything.
Now? It’s a damnfloating storybook.
There’re twinkle lights strung from bow to stern, warm cider in thermoses with crocheted cozies, a little portable heater tucked under the console, and custom wood benches Willa insisted needed “a cozy slouch factor.” She painted them herself in shades called things likeSea MistandOyster Pearl,which I’m ninety percent sure are just fancy ways of saying blue and white.
I pilot the boat. She tells the stories. And somehow, it works.
“—and that’s the spot right there,” Willa says into her mic, her voice soft and singsong as we round the bend near Lovers’ Rock. “Where the lighthouse keeper fell in love with the baker’s daughter. He lit the lantern every night for her, even after shemoved away. Every single night for twelve years. And if you want to read more, you can buy the book at Wisteria Books & Brews.”
The group on board gives the appropriate “aww,” a few of them sipping cider, one kid sneaking a second cookie from the basket. Willa winks and hands him a few in a napkin.
I glance at Willa. She’s hired more help at the bookstore and joins me on the tours we schedule. She’s standing near the bow, hair twisted into a messy braid, cheeks flushed from the cold, her scarf trailing in the wind like she’s the main character in a Hallmark movie.
She catches me watching and winks.
Lord help me.
“Fun fact,” she continues. “The baker’s daughter eventually came back and opened a bookstore. Right here in Wisteria Cove.”
A few passengers murmur with recognition.
“Wait,” a woman whispers. “That’s her.”
“Right?” her friend says, clutching her coffee cup. “That’s the couple from the flyers. They’re really married.”
I cough to hide my laugh. We’re not married. Yet.
But I’m not about to correct them. Not when Willa’s glowing with happiness like that. Not when I know, in every bone of my body, that she’s my forever.
We pass the dock, and Old Pete’s there, bundled in his coat and dozing on his bench like some magical sea wizard who’s watching over everything. I swear he still knows more about what’s happening in this town than anyone. He’s hanging in there and he’s getting the best care from everyone.
Remy strolls down the dock with Junie beside him with her own thermos and a balloon sword. She shouts, “GO FASTER!” and nearly drops the thermos.
Remy catches it, unbothered as Junie yells, “YOU GOT THIS, CAPTAIN TATE!”
I raise a hand in salute. “Aye aye!”
