Page 13 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
Inside the shop, cozy chaos is everywhere. When I left for my break, the place was slow.
The bookstore is full now, tourists everywhere, taking photos, hovering near the ‘Local Legends’ display, whispering about the 'mysterious Maren sisters.' A few of them glance at the display and back at me, and I see another lady slide her phone out of her purse and hold it up to take a photo.
Great. Just what we need. I take it all in stride, though. It's weird, but this time of year is always busy and full of tourists. They help out our town, despite it being creepy.
Behind the counter, Ivy looks far too pleased with herself as she rings up another tote bag full of books and chats up thecustomers. This time of year, we need all the help we can get. We've been saving up to expand next door, where Rowan plans on putting an apothecary shop.
And then there’s my mother, Lilith. She’s behind the bakery case, apron dusted with flour, proudly sliding a tray of pumpkin scones into the glass bakery case, as if she’s hosting a Food Network special.
People will quickly buy out every one of those scones, judging by the forming line.
“Oh, Willa,” my mom says far too casually, “Did you know Tate Holloway loves these pumpkin scones? You should take him some before they're all gone. He must be starving after unloading traps all morning.”
I stop in my tracks. “Mom,” I warn.
“What?” she asks, feigning innocence, drizzling icing onto the scones. “It’s just neighborly hospitality.”
She has a sparkle in her eye that says she’s up to something. I'll be keeping a close eye on her. Closer than ever now. She's scheming. I can feel it. I stare at her for a while and squint my eyes until she looks at me, shrugs her shoulders, and grins.
The afternoon hums right along, refusing to slow for anyone, least of all me. The sun drifts lazily over the harbor, casting everything in a golden haze that makes the pumpkins on every porch glow like lanterns and the falling leaves swirl like they’re part of some slow, deliberate dance. Somewhere down the street, wind chimes tangle in the breeze, and the distant clatter of people out walking echoes. But no matter how beautiful the day is, it just keeps pulling me with it, tasks unfinished, errands waiting, feelings I’m not quite ready to name piling up right alongside everything else. And through it all, I catch myself glancing toward the dock again, where Tate was working, unaware that he’s taking up far too much space in my head. The three of us, me, Ivy, and Rowan, are deep in a ridiculousargument about how to rearrange the store to handle the tourists and make more space.
“Rowan, we can’t just dump the romance section in with the horror,” I protest.
“Why not?” she counters. “Some plots overlap. Stalking, obsession, bad decisions. It makes sense to me.”
Ivy snorts. “She’s onto something here. It’s all basically one genre anyway: red flags and bad decisions with or without a knife.”
I laugh. “You’re both hilarious.”
“Says the three of us, whose dating lives are basically horror stories anyway.” Rowan jokes.
“Hey!” Ivy protests but then closes her mouth when Rowan gives her a pointed look. She has an on-and-off-again boyfriend, but he's a jerk, and none of us like him.
We all have nicknames for Derek, depending on the day and whatever he’s done to Ivy. Last week he was Bruno. Because we don’t talk about Bruno.
Last week Rowan referred to him as Caillou because he’s going bald and he acts like a whiny child.
It’s funny because it’s true. Derek is not good to Ivy, and we’re all just basically waiting for her to see what we see. And yeah. We might as well shelve ourselves right between thrillers and tragic comedies.
Outside, another tourist couple poses for a selfie under the bookstore sign like we’re some glossy travel guide stop, and for half a second my mood wants to turn grumpy. But I catch myself. That’s not fair. They’re sweet, smiling, holding onto each other like the world is something to celebrate. People like them keep the lights on here, spreading pictures of Wisteria Books & Brews across their feeds and drawing more curious souls into my shop.
Normally, I’d be out there waving, maybe even offering to snap the photo for them. I love that part, the steady stream ofpeople who walk through my door with stories from places I may never see. Usually, it fills me up. Today, though? Today it feels like work. And I know exactly why. My emotions are all jumbled, turned upside down by a certain broody fisherman and the meddling chorus of townsfolk who seem more invested in my love life than I am. It’s unfair, I know, to let my mood color how I see people who are only here to enjoy themselves. And realizing that makes me crankier still, because friendliness is usually effortless for me. Warmth is supposed to be my gift, not something I have to summon.
So, I take a breath, shake it off, and remind myself: none of this is their fault. My chaos is mine to carry.
“Willa, you’ve become one of the town’s famous landmarks,” Ivy says, grinning. “Right between the lighthouse and the saltwater taffy shop.”
I turn and smile, “I am glad people are coming here.”
“And you’re going to need to order more books,” Ivy says, reaching out to tug gently on the sleeve of my cardigan. “Besides...we all know you’ve been extra cranky because a certain broody fisherman is back.”
My stomach flips. “Excuse me?” I say, pretending not to be bothered.
Rowan leans back dramatically in her chair. “It’s so obvious. Maybe you should just kiss and make up, or we’ll have to shelve your love life in the dramatic works section.”
I open my mouth to argue, but before I can, my mom sweeps into the conversation like she’s been lurking in the shadows, just waiting to drop her next bomb.
“Speaking of Tate,” she says, balancing another fresh tray of pumpkin scones like some flour-dusted witch, “He’ll probably stop by. When I dropped by the harbor earlier, with the scones you refused to deliver, he mentioned needing a book to read.”
