Page 20 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
Donna claps again, delighted. “It’s settled! Willa and Tate are our fearless leaders for this year’s Harvest Moon Festival! We’re in good hands, everyone.”
The applause starts back up, the crowd leaning in, smiling, chattering, and the energy in the room shifts, not just with excitement about the festival but about us. The gossip mill is already in motion. Every eye will be watching us now, even more so than they already were.
Tate leans in just slightly as the noise swells, his voice so close to my ear that it sends a shiver down my spine. “Looks like we’re going to be spending a lot of time together, Willa.”
I shoot him a glare I don’t quite feel, my heart beating far too fast to pull it off properly. “Don’t think this means we’re friends again.”
His grin deepens. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But inside, I can feel the ground shifting beneath me. Because now the whole town is watching.
And I already know this will unravel every carefully constructed wall I’ve built since the day he left.
By the time I reach the bookstore door, my heart is racing, and I’m desperate for quiet. The meeting was chaos, everyone watching us like we’re some town-sponsored romance story they’re all rooting for. And now…I just need a second to breathe.
But then I hear his boots on the sidewalk. I close my eyes for a moment, waiting for them to continue, but they stop.
I spin around just as Tate steps up to the door, hands in his jacket pockets, looking calm. Like this is all fine. Like my whole world isn’t spinning out of control. Like a freight train flying down the tracks, and the tracks aren’t stable.
“Really?” I snap. “Your house is over there Tate.”
I soften some when I remember how I felt earlier and wanted to find him to ask about the bottle.
He shrugs, stepping a little closer. “Figured we should talk.”
“I don’t have time for this!” I glare, arms crossed so tightly it hurts. “Why are you doing this? Why now? Everything was going great until you came back and messed with my head and my heart.”
He doesn’t flinch. He just steps forward again, closing the space between us until we’re toe to toe, close enough that I can feel his warmth, close enough that my breath catches whether or not I want it to.
His voice is quiet, sure. “Are you sure it was all going great? Because Iseeyou, Willa.”
That soft, devastating line knocks the wind out of me.
“You look lonely,” he goes on, eyes locked on mine. “Your smiles don’t reach your eyes. You look tired. Worn out. Not theadventurous, happy person I used to know. We were friends, Willa. And to be honest, I always wanted more.”
That cuts deep, and I hate that he’s right about me being lonely. Really freaking lonely. Some nights, when the shop is closed and I’m in my loft for the night, the silence is too loud. I ache for a friend: my old friend, Tate. But then I remember that I wasn’t the one who left, the one who didn’t care.
And he always wanted more? I don't even know what to say to that. What does that even mean?
So I shove the words back at him before he can say anything else. “The girl you used to know is gone, Tate. You don’t know her anymore.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Then let me get to know the woman standing in front me now.”
I blink hard, throat tight. But I’m not done. Not yet, and not even close. I’m not going down without a fight. “You can’t just send me a message in a bottle and think that fixes everything!” I snap, voice cracking.
And the absolute nerve of him…he smirks, leaning in just slightly, close enough that I can feel the heat of him in the cool night air. His voice is low, teasing, but with that edge that always undoes me. “Which is it, Willa? You want me to send messages, or you don’t?”
It’s too much. All of it. The steady burn in his eyes. The half-smile he’s fighting is like it might give him away. And the quiet, unbearable tenderness of him standing here when I’m clawing at every scrap of willpower not to feel a thing.
My chest squeezes, sharp and aching. The words slip out, softer than I mean them to. “You don’t get to do this, Tate.”
For a moment, he looks at me like he’s memorizing something he’s afraid he’ll forget. Then his smile changes. It softens, turns sad in a way that feels like it’s unraveling me thread by thread.
“I wish I knew how not to,” he says. His voice is low, almost regretful, and then he turns, walking away with that slow, unhurried stride that makes me want to call him back.
The street feels too quiet without him. Too empty.
And somehow, that’s the most dangerous thing of all. Because heisdoing this. And I’m letting him.
