Page 76 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
Tate groans, the sound ragged, guttural, as he bucks up into me, relentless, as though he needs to drag every last wave from my body before letting go himself. And God, the sight of him beneath me, sweat-slick, muscles straining, eyes blazing with hunger and pride, is almost enough to undo me all over again.
I collapse against him, trembling, breathless, and still pulsing around him, the air heavy with the scent of sweat and sex and him.
This isn’t just sex. It’s fire. It’s frenzy. It’s the best I’ve ever had. And it terrifies me how much I want it again, how much I wanthim.
He comes hard and pulses inside and holds me tight, and I know that this is it. He’s it for me. He’s always been my anchor.
Later, tangled in flannel sheets and breathless silence, I lie against his chest, the steady thump of his heart grounding me.
The lanterns are still glowing outside.
The bookstore smells like cinnamon and change.
And in this moment, I believe we might actually be okay.
Even if the other shoedoesdrop…I think we’ll catch it. Together.
Chapter 22
Tate
You could fill this harbor with all the words I didn’t say,
but there’s one that matters most:
stay.
I want to stay.
With you. I love you.
-Tate
Wisteria Cove doesn’t just throw a festival; they turn the entire town into pure magic. Lanterns glow like fireflies strung between the buildings, cider and cinnamon spill warmth into the air, and the whole town hums like it’s alive. I can’t believe all the work it took to make this happen. But the only thing on my mind right now is Willa and how much being back here with her means to me.
Donna and Lilith might’ve been the masterminds, pulling strings behind the scenes to get us together with this festival, but their grand plan wasn’t about pies or pumpkins. It was about herand me, remembering what we had and what we have now. And damn it, it worked.
Helping with the planning gave me something I didn’t even realize I was starving for, a means of belonging. A reason to be here and to stay. To keep building instead of letting things slip away and fall apart around me. But more than that, it gave me time with her. Watching her laugh with her sisters, tuck her hair behind her ear while she argued about string lights, roll her eyes at me, and then soften and come back to me. I will never know what I did to deserve her, but I will be forever grateful.
Somewhere between hammering stakes into the ground and hauling crates of pumpkins with Finn, I stopped feeling like the outsider who came back too late. I started feeling like a man who still had a shot. And it wasn’t because of the town, or the festival, or even the sense of belonging. It was her. It’s always been her and always will be.
And for the first time in a long damn while, I don’t feel like I’m treading water or just surviving. I’m having fun with Willa and our friends. And I’m not ready to let that go.
The air smells like cider, firewood, and something sweet, which makes sense because there are treats everywhere. Kids dressed like scarecrows and woodland creatures chase each other between hay bales. The sound of laughter mixes with live music from local bands drifting from the gazebo stage. Somewhere, Donna’s singing along to a song and probably writing future book scenes about all of this.
The bookstore is lit up like a postcard, lanterns glowing from every tree, pumpkin strings hanging from the porch, and Willa floating around in her maroon-colored sweater, her hair pinned back with a gold leaf clip, passing out spiced scones like the Fall Queen of New England. And she truly is. She’s the next generation to Wisteria Cove just like her mother, Lilith. She’s special to this town and special to me.
She smiles when she catches me watching her. I smile back, but my chest feels…tight. I can’t put my finger on it, but I hate that the feeling is there.
I’m helping with the hayride. Kids climb in, giggling, carrying caramel apples bigger than their faces. Junie’s riding shotgun with me, holding the reins like she’s steering a pirate ship. “You think this wagon could go airborne if we hit a bump hard enough?” She asks, dead serious.
“Kid, if we do that, your father’s gonna kill me.”
She nods as if that’s fair.
The wagon rumbles down the trail through the tree farm, and everything is golden.
After the ride, I help unload the wagon and head toward the cider booth. I pass Remy, looking like a slightly frazzled lumberjack trying to manage an excited five-year-old, and Ivy sweet-talking a group of tourists into donating to the Root & Salt apothecary shop raising money for Rowan.
