Page 31 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
I stare at him for a second, overwhelmed but grateful. This is the lifeline I didn’t expect tonight.
“You don’t have to figure everything out all at once,” Remy adds, softer now. “But I’d be glad to have you at the nursery. You’re good with your hands, and patient. You’d fit right in.”
Something loosens in my chest, something tight and tired. For the first time in days, I allowed myself to believe that maybe there’s a future for me here that isn’t tied to my dad’s old boat or a house my mom doesn’t care about.
“Thanks, Remy,” I say sincerely. “That means more than you know.”
“You’re family, Tate,” Remy says. “Always have been.”
When I finally leave, it’s late and cool and still. The wind carries the scent of pine and wood smoke, and Main Street is quiet but bathed in a warm glow from the old-fashioned streetlamps.
I walk slowly, letting my boots scuff the worn sidewalks and looking into the darkened windows of the little shops I’ve known my whole life as I go. Wisteria Books & Brews. The harbor just at the edge of town, with boats rocking gently under the moonlight.
But tonight, for the first time, I don’t feel entirely shut out.Maybe I’m not meant to follow in my father’s footsteps after all. And maybe this town still has a place for me. And it doesn’t have to be who he is. It’s who I am.
That thought warms me all the way home.
Chapter 11
Willa
Someone once told me forgiveness isn’t earned, it’s given.
But if it can be earned, I’ll spend every day showing you.
-Tate
Every morning, like clockwork, I’ve been looking forward to unlocking the front shop door and flipping the open sign. Not for the first hot coffee or even the routine comfort of the place. But because I know what will wait just beside the flower box, tucked away. Another message in a bottle.
I try to tell myself I don’t care. But my fingers always tremble when I pull the cork, my breath hitching as I unroll the scroll inside.
Today’s message?“Someone once told me forgiveness isn’t earned, it’s given. But if it can be earned, I’ll spend every day showing you.”
The words hit me right in the chest. Infuriating, tender and perfect. And far more effective than I’m willing to admit to myself. Damn it. He knows I love romantic gestures. He’s playing right to my heart. And I’m falling for it, hook, line, and sinker.
I tuck the bottle behind the counter with the others, a whole little collection now, lined up like glass soldiers guarding memories I swore I wouldn’t linger on. I take a deep breath, willing my heart to slow down.
Then the bell jingles, and he’s here. Right on cue. Tate Holloway, in all his broody fisherman glory. His presence stirs the air, draws gazes, quickens my pulse. He’s different now, quieter, softer somehow. The grief of losing his father still clings to him, tucked in the corners of his smile, heavy in the way his shoulders set when he thinks no one’s watching. But I don’t miss it. It’s impossible not to feel it. I know how hard it is to carry the grief of losing a parent. It’s not a club you want to be a part of. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
Donna pauses her knitting. Lilith lifts her mug in silent commentary, a familiar, knowing smirk spreading across her face. Donna opens the notebook that she carries and scribbles a few things in it. Probably fodder for a future book. The bookstore practically hums with excited whispers whenever he’s here. Everyone is watching and enjoying this. Conversations slow, and customers pause and glance over.
“Morning, Willa,” he says, his voice that warm, rough-edged tone that slides under my skin no matter how I try to harden myself against it. His eyes catch mine for just a second, a flicker of vulnerability in their depths, a glimpse of something real and raw, and I feel my defenses let down just a little more. This is happening more and more every time he sends another message and comes around.
He leans on the counter, easy, familiar, the edge of his mouth curving into that damn dimpled smile I’ve sworn I’m immune to. “Usual?”
“Obviously,” I mutter, already wrapping his sandwich and pouring his black coffee, my hands moving on autopilot while my heart beats far too fast.
Every day, he shows up, and he smiles that patient smile. Every day, he leaves another bottle. And he’s been doing this so often that he’s even become a regular around here.
Today, though, something changes. It feels different.
Just as I hand over Tate’s order, setting his plate down in front of him, his eyes catch mine for the briefest second. My chest tightens, but I force myself to keep moving, collecting empty mugs and plates from the next table. It’s busy enough that I can lose myself in the rhythm of the work, let my pulse settle.
I balance the stack carefully in my hands and make my way back toward the counter. Halfway across the room, though, I’m cut off by a man in a light blue polo and cargo pants who swivels in his chair, blocking my path. He flashes me a grin that makes my skin prickle. “Hey, darlin’,” he drawls, southern accent thick enough to drip. “Got a number to go with that smile?”
I shift the plates in my hands, keeping my tone polite but firm. “I’m flattered, but no. I’ve got a shop to run.”
He leans closer, undeterred. “Come on now. It’s just dinner.” His eyes flick down, lingering far too long before crawling back up to meet mine.
