Page 49 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
“Oh my god.” Rowan cackles. “Arealrooster?”
“Yeah, apparently his name is Harvey.” She adds, “And he's a really rude rooster.”
“Did it wear a little hat?” Tate asks.
I smile, eyes still closed, and let the sounds wash over me. They’re holding it down for me. And I’m not panicking about it.
I wake again to the soft creak of the door. Tate slips in, quieter this time, a tray in his hands. He’s carrying tea, soup, and toast.
He sets it down on my nightstand and crouches again. “Still alive?”
“Barely.”
“You look better.”
“Liar.”
He grins. “Well, Cobweb looks rested and well-fed, so at least one of you’s thriving.”
I glance down at the kitten now sprawled across the blankets like she owns the bed. She blinks at me, yawn-purring.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Little after one. Ivy is having her big real estate assistant debut. Rowan’s rearranging the tea shelf. I made dozens of sales, and it was to tourists who said to tell you they will be back to get an autograph.”
I laugh, “That’s weird.”
“Nope. You’re an icon around here.”
Despite everything, I laugh. It hurts, but it’s worth it.
He watches me, expression soft.“You worried me this morning.”
“I’m fine,” I insist.
“You don’t have to be,” he says and then adds. “Not all the time.”
I look at him, this man who showed up before I asked, stayed when I tried to push him away, and somehow knew exactly what I needed.
“You’re kind of relentless,” I whisper.
He shrugs. “Only with you.”
That should scare me. But right now? It just…doesn’t. It feels good. It feels like maybe I don’t have to be so lonely anymore.
I’m curled up in the big armchair by the front window, blanket over my lap, hair still damp from my shower. I probably look tired, because I am, but I’m taking it slow. I wanted to get up and move around, maybe shelve some books, but Tate wouldn’t stop hovering. He tried to get me to stay in bed. Like that was going to happen. Rowan finally convinced me to at least stay put in the chair.
Tate’s behind the counter unpacking a delivery box, sorting books into neat stacks like it’s some kind of delicate surgery. He thinks I don’t notice, but his eyes keep flicking toward me every few minutes. And each time he looks, there’s this…softness. Like I’m a page he’s memorizing.
The bell over the door jingles, and in breezes Donna like the store is her stage and she’s the main act. “I’m here to sign more books,” she announces, brandishing a wrapped copy like it’s a trophy. She leans toward Tate and stage-whispers, “And yes, before you ask, it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. Again.”
I smile, amused despite myself. “Used the good pen?”
“Obviously.” She drops into the chair across from me like she’s settling in for a show.
Then she swivels toward Tate, her eyes sparkling like she’s about to light a match. “And how’s the boat, Tate?”
Here we go.
