Page 41 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
“You don’t have to do that anymore,” I murmur.
We fall quiet again.Outside, thunder rumbles low. The rain’s still steady but softer now, like even the sky’s calming down to listen.
I shift a little closer and tug the throw tighter around my shoulders. “Do you want to know what I think?”
He nods slowly, eyes still locked on the fire.
“I think your mom doesn’t get to decide what stays with you. You do.”
He looks at me, really looks at me. “What do you mean?”
I nod. “You carry those memories. The good ones. The ones that matter. You carry the porch memories and the dream of harbor tours. She can sell the house and the boat. But she can’t take away everything.”
He blinks, and I see the way his jaw works, like he’s thinking about something.
“Besides,” I say softly, “what if that dream isn’t in your back pocket anymore because it’s already here?”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I say, my voice trembling just slightly, “maybe it’s not something you fall back on. Maybe it’s something you start building now. With what you have. With who you are. You have a lot of experience. People trust you here.”
Tate doesn’t move. He just watches me with a gaze so steady I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.
“You make this town feel like home again, Tate. Maybe this was how it was always supposed to be, and how it was supposed to turn out.”
For a second, I think I’ve said too much. Opened the door too wide.But then he shifts closer, hand brushing mine as he speaks.
“I was never any good at talking about stuff.”
“I’ve noticed,” I say with a faint smile.
He chuckles under his breath, eyes crinkling. “But I want to be better. With you.”
My heart does a full-body somersault.
“I don’t want to be some drifter fisherman who shows up and disappears again. I don’t want to lose everything and call it starting over.”
I look up at him. “Then don’t.”
His hand finds mine, this time fully, fingers twining around mine like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like he’s meant to. He exhales, like he’s finally breathing for the first time in a long time.
Cobweb shifts in her sleep, curling tighter against my chest. The candlelight flickers. The rain outside slows to a quiet hush, more lullaby than storm now. Tate sits close beside me on the sofa, his arm stretched along the back, blanket draped over both our shoulders.
For a while, neither of us says anything. We don’t need to. The silence isn’t awkward, it’s heavy with warmth, with something I can’t quite name. His thigh brushes mine every time he shifts, and each touch sends a spark skittering through me.
I should tell him to stay in the spare room. I should stand up and move, create space. Instead, I just sink further into the cushion, letting the weight of him anchor me.
My eyelids grow heavy, the fire crackling low and steady. Tate’s hand, resting against the back of the sofa, drifts down,not on purpose, I don’t think, until it brushes lightly against my shoulder. He doesn’t move it away. And I don’t ask him to.
The last thing I’m aware of is the steady rhythm of his breathing, the comforting heat of his body beside mine, and the kitten’s tiny purr rumbling against my chest.
I wake to the sound of my mother’s voice. “Well, well, well,” Lilith singsongs, bracelets jingling as she sweeps into the room. “What have we here?”
My eyes fly open. The morning light spills across the room, gilding everything in soft gold, and I realize with a jolt that I’m not alone. Tate is still here. Still on the sofa. And at some point in the night, I must have shifted, because I’m curled against him now, my head tucked under his chin, his arm snug around me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Cobweb is sprawled on his chest, purring contentedly, as if she’s claimed him, too.
Heat floods my cheeks. I try to sit up, but Tate’s arm tightens instinctively, pulling me back for a second before he blinks awake, groggy and confused. Then his eyes focus on me, and the slow, sleepy smile that spreads across his face makes my stomach flip.
