Page 48 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
I try to brush it off. “Just a migraine. I get them sometimes. It’ll pass.”
“Doesn’t look like it’s passing.” He crouches beside the bed, eyes scanning my face like he’s cataloging the damage.“You look like someone hit you with a freight train.”
“Thanks,” I croak.
He smiles, just barely. “Beautiful freight train.”
His hand comes up, rough and cool against my overheated skin, his thumb brushing lightly along my cheekbone. The touch is soft, careful, like he’s afraid I might break apart under his fingers. The coolness soothes some of the pounding heat in my head, easing the edge of the nausea.
I lean into it before I can stop myself, the simple comfort undoing me in ways I don’t have the strength to fight.
I try to sit up straighter, but the effort sends another jolt of pain ripping through my skull, and I suck in a sharp breath. His hand steadies me instantly, thumb stroking once more, steady and grounding.
Tate frowns, the crease between his brows deepening. “That’s it. Stay in bed.”
“I’m fine. I just need?—”
But before I can finish, he’s already on his feet, moving with quiet efficiency. He crosses the room, grabs the orange prescription bottle from my nightstand, and shakes two pills into his palm after a brief study of the label. Then he pours a glass of water from the carafe by the bed and sets it gently in my hands.
“Here,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Take these.”
I swallow them obediently, the cool water soothing my raw throat. When I hand the glass back, his fingers brush mine, steady, grounding, unshakably calm in contrast to the storm pounding in my skull.
He eases me back against the pillows, tugging the blanket up over my shoulders with a tenderness that steals my breath. “Now sleep,” he murmurs, his voice low and sure. “I’ll be right here.”
“But the store?—”
“Will survive one day without you.” He lowers his voice. “Willa…I’ve never seen you take a break. Not once since I’ve been back.”
“I can do this by myself,” I whisper, defensive even as my voice trembles.
His eyes soften. “But that doesn’t mean you have to.”
I look away, throat tight. “It’s just easier when I do it.”
He crouches down again. “Then let me be the one helping you handle it. Just today.”
I don’t say yes. But I don’t argue again, either.
He squeezes my hand gently, then brushes a thumb along my wrist before standing. “Sleep. I’ve got it.”
And somehow, I believe him, and I drift off again.
Time passes in strange little stretches…ten minutes here, half an hour there, never long enough for a full dream, but just long enough to forget where I am and drift off.
The next time I surface, Cobweb is snuggled under my chin, and the faint smell of coffee drifts up.
There’s laughter. Tate’s voice. Deep and smooth, saying something about soup and how ridiculous any book is with a title longer than ten words.
Rowan laughs. “You’re ridiculous. And that’s not how alphabetizing works.”
“Oh? Then why doesThe Mysterious Midwife’s Magical Moonlight Misadventuresbelong under ‘M’?”
More laughter. Mugs clinking. Footsteps, chatter, movement.
I can picture them downstairs, Tate behind the counter, probably making a mess of the coffee station. Rowan reorganizing the entire store like she always does. Ivy popped in, fresh-faced and anxious from her first day as a real estate agent’s assistant for her lunch break.
“I wore heels,” she says through a mouthful of what sounds like a sandwich. “They said business casual but didn’t warn me about three flights of stairs and a listing with a rooster that apparently comes with the house and lives in the kitchen.”
