Page 45 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
Even Ivy’s smiling now, cheeks flushed, and Rowan's grip on her cup has finally loosened. Junie’s giggling under a beanbag fort with her pizza next to her, finally eating her dinner.
Willa looks at me from behind the counter, a soft, amused little smile playing on her lips. Her eyes catch mine, and for a beat, everything else fades out.
And in that moment, with a full belly, full heart, in a bookstore lit with string lights and apple-scented candles, I feel something settle and click into place.
Remy catches my eye and gives me a nod. I tilt my head toward the side reading room. “Got a sec?”
I follow him into the quieter nook off the bookstore side, where a cozy circle arranges the chairs and they dim half the lights for later. He glances out the window, then looks back at me.
“If that offer still stands…” I start, rubbing my hands on my jeans. “The job and cabin. I think I’m ready to take you up on it.”
Remy doesn’t say anything at first. Just nods slowly, thoughtful. “You sure?”
“I am.”
His mouth curves into a small, relieved smile. “Good. I meant what I said. I could use someone steady. Someone I can trust. I’m about to go into the busiest season of the year, and I already feel like I’m drowning under the weight of everything. I need you.”
We shake on it. His grip’s solid. Familiar.
“You know,” he says, tapping his knuckles on the side of a bookshelf, “this town has a way of keeping the right people. Even the ones who try to run from it.”
I glance back out toward the main room, where Willa’s laughing at something Finn said, and Junie’s showing Ivy her glittery witch hat.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m starting to figure that out.”
It’s late now. The moon hangs low and sleepy through the windowpanes, and the streets of Wisteria Cove are empty except for the glow of porch lights and streetlamps and the rustle of the leaves.
The bookstore is quiet, and the crowd’s long gone, and I’m sweeping up confetti stars from a toddler’s sparkly disaster while Willa straightens books behind the counter. Her cardigan’s hanging off one shoulder now, and she’s humming some soft melody that I don’t recognize.
I don’t want to leave. So, I just help her clean up.
She glances up. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”
“I’d rather be here than anywhere else tonight.” I keep sweeping.
She laughs, low and tired and real. It lands in the center of my chest. She’s finally letting me in.
I carry the bag of trash out back, where the air bites cooler than before. When I return, she’s wiping down the tables, hair falling into her face. She pushes it back with her wrist, not realizing there’s whipped cream on her sleeve.
“You’ve got—” I gesture. “Frosting? Cream? Something sticky and mysterious?”
She groans, inspecting her arm. “Fantastic. The hazard of the job.”
“It’s a good look on you,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her eyes flick up to mine. She doesn't look away.
There’s something different in her now, some invisible wall lowered an inch. Still guarded, but softer around the edges.
“I think the window by the front door is loose,” she murmurs, walking past me toward the entrance.
“Which one?”
“That one,” she points, “It rattles when it’s windy. I think the latch is off.”
I follow her to the front, where the old glass pane shivers faintly in its frame as the wind whispers down Main Street.
I kneel beside it and inspect the hardware. One screw has come loose. Easy fix, if I had my drill.
