Page 26 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
“Knows what?” Ivy asks.
“That he’s…so ridiculously good looking.” I scowl.
Ivy’s grin is wicked. “Honey, I thinkeveryoneknows.”
Before I can respond, Tate catches Junie, tosses her gently into the air, and when he looks back over his shoulder, it’s right at me. Again. Like he can feel me watching. And he winks.
Damn it.
My chest tightens, and Lilith’s words echo in my mind:Your heart knows before your mind catches up.
Maybe it does. Maybe…just maybe…this town, this moment, this man, they’re all conspiring to remind me that life doesn’t have to be perfectly planned. And it doesn’t have to be so lonely.
Sometimes it’s just cider on a Friday night. Sometimes it’s your sister laughing at inside jokes beside you and your mother handing you wisdom and a mug of cider.
And sometimes it’s the realization thatmaybeTate Holloway isn’t the enemy I’ve been telling myself he is.
I take another sip of cider, smile to myself, and let the thought bloom fully this time:
All right, maybe he isn’t that bad.
It’s the next evening after work, at my mom’s house, and if fall has a smell, this is it. Warm cinnamon, brown sugar, cloves, and the buttery scent of apple crumble baking in the oven. Her kitchen is comfortable chaos: flour dust swirling in beams of golden afternoon light, mismatched mixing bowls stacked high, and every available surface cluttered with measuring cups and spice jars.
She’s got a fall-themed playlist playing in the background, and the vibes are perfection.
And at the center of it all? The annual Maren family bake-off.
Mom’s idea of a “casual family gathering,” which everyone knows is code forcutthroat culinary combat.
“I hope you brought your A-game, Willa,” Ivy teases from across the farmhouse table, her apron dusted in flour, a smug grin on her face as she folds cinnamon sugar into her pie dough.
“Please,” I scoff, cracking eggs like a pro. “Iamthe reigning champion. This pumpkin bread practically makes itself at this point.”
Before Ivy can retort, the front door creaks open, and in strolls Tate Holloway, looking all-too-smug, himself, in an orange and black plaid flannel rolled to the elbows and jeans slung low on his hips and carrying a six-pack of cider under one arm.
“What’shedoing here?” I whisper ask, louder than I intend as I blow flour-dusted hair from my sweaty face.
My mom of course, claps her hands together like she’s been waiting for this moment. “Oh, didn’t I mention? Tate’s my guest judge/competitor today.”
Ivy snorts into her dough. “Correction: we’re pairing himagainstyou, Willa. You know…since you take this competition so seriously.”
The room erupts in laughter and cheers as Tate sidles up next to me at the counter, plopping his cider down and rolling up his sleeves even further. He smirks at me, “Hi, Willa.”
I just stare at him with a deadpan glance, pretending to be unimpressed.
“Careful,” he murmurs, leaning close, his voice low and teasing, “wouldn’t want you to crumble under the pressure.”
“Funny,” I say sweetly, elbowing him just enough to make him stagger a step. “Shouldn’t you be out fishing or something?”
He grins, with that maddeningly charming grin that makes my stomach do stupid little flips. “Not when there’s treats to be eaten.”
And I don’t miss the way his eyes never leave mine or my lips when he says it.
And just like that, the battle is on. By the time the apple crumble is in the oven and the kitchen smells like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting, I’m dusted head-to-toe in flour and so is Tate, though mostly because I’ve “accidentally” flung some at him when he teases my icing technique.
We’re laughing, bickering over who makes a better caramel drizzle, and somewhere between the cinnamon sticks and nutmeg, things shift.
He stills, gaze dropping to my mouth. For a long, suspended moment, he doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move. His expression is intent, heavy, like the world has narrowed to just me.
