Page 23 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
Willa mutters a half-hearted “thanks” and grabs her bag quickly, like she can escape this entire situation if she moves fast enough. I catch up easily as we step outside, the cool autumn air cutting through the heat of embarrassment that Marco left in his wake.
“That was something,” I say, falling into step beside her.
She exhales hard. “This town...honestly.”
But she doesn’t walk away. She doesn’t tell me to go.
Instead, we end up walking side by side down Main Street, paper bags in hand, heading in the general direction of both her bookstore and my house. The easy silence between us is strange, comfortable, but charged, and I can’t help sneaking glances at her while we walk.
About halfway down the block, she hesitates.Then, almost grudgingly, she says, “I guess…you could come inside and eat. We could discuss the festival plans.”
It’s not an overly friendly invitation exactly, but it’s not nothing.
I don’t even pretend to play it cool. “Sure,” I say, keeping my tone light even though my heart’s thudding a little harder than it should.
When we reach the bookstore, I hold the door open for her. She unlocks it quickly, slipping inside, and I follow, only to realize there’s already a small crowd gathered on the sidewalkwatching us through the window, smiling as if they’re watching a nineties romcom.
Seriously.
Even more townspeople are gathering. Pretending to chat with someone or sip coffee, but we can both feel their eyes on us.
“Unbelievable,” she mutters, locking the door firmly behind us and pulling down the shade that doesn't quite give us privacy. “They’re going to stare through the window the whole time.”
I glance toward the window where they're watching, waving exaggeratedly when they catch my eye.
Willa groans softly and turns toward the back of the shop. “Come on,” she says, jerking her chin toward a narrow staircase. “Upstairs. They can’t see us up there.”
I follow her up into her loft, and the second I climb inside, I’m floored.
This space… It’s so her. Cozy, lived-in, full of books stacked on every available surface. String lights draped casually across the ceiling beams. A worn old sofa is tucked into a corner near the wide window that overlooks the harbor. Soft throw blankets, mugs on the windowsill, a candle begging to be lit on the table.
I feel like I’m stepping right into her mind, and it’s warmer and softer than I expected. “This is…nice,” I say quietly, taking it all in.
She glances back at me, cautious, a little wary, but I catch the faintest hint of a smile. “It’s my cozy space,” she says.
She sets her takeout on the small table near the couch and pulls out two mismatched plates, handing me one without meeting my gaze directly.
“Sit,” she says, nodding toward the couch. “Eat. Discuss the festival. That’s all.”
“Of course,” I say, doing exactly what she says but grinning, anyway.
We sit across from each other, pasta warm on our laps, and for a while we don’t say much, just eat quietly while the sounds of the harbor drift in through the cracked window.
And down below? The townspeople slowly lose interest, one by one drifting away when they realize they can’t see anything from down there.
The silence between us stretches out, but it’s not uncomfortable anymore. If anything, it feels…right.
After a few minutes, Willa sighs softly and finally speaks. “I can’t believe we’re co-chairing this thing together,” she says, shaking her head. “I was supposed to be avoiding you.”
I chuckle. “You’ve been doing a terrible job of that.”
She rolls her eyes, but this time, there’s no heat behind it. And just like that, the frost melts slowly, carefully, and she lets her shoulders relax.
After we finish eating, she stands and carries the plates downstairs, and I follow.
“I’ll make coffee,” I offer, moving behind the counter before she can object.
She snorts, folding her arms as she leans back against the register. “You? Make coffee? This I have to see.”
