Page 34 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
It’s just us.
And the heat sparking low in my belly tells me he knows it.
More pies arrive, and the banter continues. He critiques crusts like he’s auditioning for a baking show, and I pretend not to notice how he keeps leaning in, his shoulder brushing mine more often than seems necessary. I notice he only offers high praise and makes all the contestants blush.
I’m about to toss back a witty reply when it hits me.
This exact table.
A flash of memory, sharp and uninvited. I’m small again, maybe six or seven, sitting cross-legged on a bench, watching my parents at this very table. Mom leaning into Dad, both of them laughing as they taste pies, fingers brushing as they passed each plate between them. Their peaceful rhythm, their banter, the way they made it feel like love wasn’t just safe but possible.
And it sears through me, hot and sudden, because for a second, I can almost hear their laughter again. Almost see the way my dad used to wink at me across the table as he stole another bite from my mom’s plate. And I feel him in this moment, as if he is still here, although I know he isn’t.
But he’s gone. And when I glance over at my mom, she’s watching me with a small, sad smile on her face like maybe she is remembering, too.
And suddenly I’m back in my skin, heart thudding too hard, breath catching in my throat.
Yeah…thisis why I can’t do this. Especially not with Tate.
Because what if I let myself sink into this, into him, into us, and then one day he’s gone, too? They don’t always come home.
What if one day I’m sitting at this same table, and there’s no one beside me, no laughter, just silence and empty chairs and a hollow ache that never quite heals? And I’m standing there where my mother is now with a sad smile on my face. No. I won’t let that happen to me.
He’s a fisherman. He leaves. That’s what they do. They leave the harbor, and sometimes they don’t come back.
I can’t go through that again. I won’t go through that again.
The laughter and clinking plates around me sound distant now, like they belong to another world, one I can’t touch, one that’s moving on while I sit here frozen, jarred by the weight of it all.
Tate says something next to me, light and teasing still, but I can’t process it.
I just nod, smile, and hope he doesn’t see the way my hands tremble when I reach for the next slice of pie.
“Everything all right, Willa?” he asks, voice softer now but still roughened by the edge of protectiveness that makes my stomach twist and flutter all at once.
My heart is pounding so loud I swear the whole town can hear it. “Fine,” I say, though I can’t quite keep the breathlessness out of my voice.
The crowd releases their collective breath as he finally sits, smirking just a little as he leans back in his chair, thoroughly pleased with himself.
I bury my face in my hands for a moment before peeking through my fingers at Tate. He just raises his fork again, cutting another perfect bite of pie.
“Don’t even think about feeding me again,” I warn.
“Oh, I’m thinking about it,” he says, his voice low, teasing, and just this side of sinful.
And just like that, I feel it again, that awful, wonderful truth tightening in my chest: I still love him.
Despite everything, I still do. I can’t turn it off, no matter how hard I try.
The contest continues, the chaos resumes, and the town watches like we’re their favorite show, which, let’s be honest, we probably are. But all I can feel is the warmth of Tate’s shoulder brushing mine, the heat of his gaze every time I laugh, and the way my defenses crumble a little more every time he so much as smiles at me.
Damn him. Damn this town. And damn how much I secretly love every second of it.
Chapter 12
Tate
The salty harbor air slaps me in the face the second I step off the dock, full of sharp salt, cold wind, and a chill that cuts straight through your clothes and into your bones.The old boat groans beneath my boots as I step on deck, wood creaking like it remembers me. Like it knows this might be one of the last times I touch it. I crouch low, fingers moving to the dock lines out of muscle memory. Dad drilled it into me: tight knots, strong grip, no slack. You take care of what you love, and it'll take care of you. Dad was meticulous about safety and keeping things right. That's why losing him made no sense. He and Mr. Maren did everything by the book. Whatever happened out there had to have been bad. They didn’t take chances.
