Page 63 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
-Tate
Idon’tmeanto hover by the window, wiping the same spot on the counter for at least four minutes now. My eyes dart up every few seconds like a total obsessed weirdo. Ivy would say I’m manifesting. Rowan would say I need to get laid.
But I know what this is.It’s stupid, traitorous, aching hope.And then there he finally is, Tate Holloway. He's standing out front in a navy Henley that’s tight across his shoulders and clings a little to the sweat at his collar. He’s crouched in front of the old wooden bench just outside the bookstore, tool belt slung low on his hips, forehead creased in concentration as he works on the cracked leg.
I didn’t ask him to fix that. But there he is. Doing it, anyway.I push the door open, and the little bell tinkles above me like it’s announcing something far more dramatic than my entrance.
“You know,” I say, trying for light, teasing, not-too-invested, “most people knock before performing unsolicited repairs.”
Tate glances up, squints against the sunlight. There’s sawdust on his beard, and a line of sweat at his temple. His hand pauses on the screwdriver, but he doesn’t stop. “Figured you’d want it done right,” he says.
That’s it. Just like that. Like it doesn’t send a whole thing rolling through me. I don’t say anything right away, because Idowant it done right. And I hate that he’s not just talking about the bench. He’s talking about us.
“You want a cider?” I offer instead. “It’s apple-ginger. From Rowan’s weird organic box.”
He nods once. Doesn’t say no. So, I duck inside and grab two bottles, palms sweating more than they should be. I tell myself it’s the humidity. I tell myself it’snotthe way he looked at me like I mattered for a second.
I hand him the bottle. Our fingers graze and linger. God, he looks good. He’s built like a freaking unit in that Henley. A warm spark shoots straight up my core, and I swear the air between us dips into slow motion. He doesn’t pull away, and neither do I.
I clear my throat and look down. “I made muffins. Your favorite cinnamon ones that you like. At least I think you like them. You used to.” I glance up at him from under my lashes.
“But if you’re not hungry…”
His expression doesn’t change. But something in his shoulder’s shift, the air around us thickening as his voice dips lower. “Muffins, huh?” he says finally, the corner of his mouth tugging. Then, softer, almost a growl, “Oh, I’m definitely hungry.”
The words land low in my stomach, heat rushing through me so fast it’s dizzying. My thighs press together instinctively under the table, and I’m suddenly, achingly aware of every inch of space between us…or maybe the lack of it.
I force a shaky laugh, trying for lightness, but my pulse betrays me, hammering in my throat.
His gaze lingers, dark and steady, making it very clear he’s not talking about muffins.
Tate follows me inside, and for a few moments, all I can hear is the scuff of his boots on the old hardwood floor. I hand him a muffin on one of the mismatched bakery plates and watch as he peels back the wrapper without a word.
And that’s when I finally realize it. Something’s bothering him. He’s quiet, and it’s not his usual silence, the kind that’s sometimes filled with stubborn brooding. No, this one feelsheavier.Like he’s carrying something too big and too bitter to put into words. “You, okay?” I ask, trying to keep it casual.
He doesn’t look up.
I smile. “Rough day on the tree farm? Did a pinecone insult you?”
Still nothing.
He finally lifts his head, and the look in his eyes nearly steals the air out of my lungs. Something’s wrong. Really wrong. The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s about to speak, but nothing comes. He swallows instead and shakes his head just barely.
That’s when it hits me with how badly I need to fix it. Whatever it is. I hate that he’s hurting. I’d do anything right now for him not to be hurting.
Which was sonotthe plan when he first came back. Tate Holloway hurt me. Left me. Made me rebuild walls I didn’t even know I had the blueprints for. But right now, all I can think about is how hollow his silence feels. Like someone carved out part of him and didn’t bother putting it back.
I watch him quietly, the way his jaw ticks, his fingers tapping absently against the side of his cider bottle like he’s trying not tofeelsomething.
He hasn’t said much in the last few minutes, just those sad smiles and half-hearted jokes. And for once, the silence between us isn’t easy. It’s thick. Raw.
So I ask softly, “Is it April?”
Tate doesn’t look at me right away. He just stares at the far bookshelf like it’s safer than my face.
Then, finally, he nods. Once. “I think…” His voice is hoarse. “I think I’ve been hoping that she’d come around. That maybe she was just angry or confused or…something.”
He swallows, and my heart clenches as I wait, not pushing, justbeing there.
