Page 32 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
My shoulders stiffen. “I’m not available. But the diner is?—”
“Not interested in restaurants,” he cuts me off, smirking. “I’d rather spend my evening with you.”
I try to sidestep him, my arms are still full, but he shifts with me, too close, invading my space. “You locals always this hard to crack? Bet you’re sweeter once you loosen up.”
I force a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Sir, I really need to get back to work.”
And then, just as I shift my weight to move past, he reaches out, hand lifting toward my hair. My stomach twists. My hands are full. I can’t even brush him away?—
But I don’t have to.
Tate is there in an instant. Silent, sudden, like he’s been watching the whole time. His fingers close around the man’s wrist before it can reach me, grip unyielding.
“Don’t,” Tate says, his voice low and steady. “You don’t put your hands on people without their consent.”
The whole shop seems to still. The man startles, blinking up at Tate, who towers over him with a calm so sharp it feels dangerous. Tate doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The quiet authority in it vibrates straight through the air, leaving no room for argument.
I suck in a breath, my heart hammering. Relief, gratitude, something else I can’t name, all of it knots in my chest as I watch the tourist yank his hand back, muttering something under his breath before sinking into his chair.
Tate doesn’t look at him again. His gaze finds me, checking me over like he’s making sure I’m intact.
And damn him, it’s hot. Way hotter than it has any right to be.
Donna’s smirk widens as she sips her coffee, eyes twinkling with delight. I give it about fifteen minutes before the entire town knows about this incident. In fact, Donna and Lilith are practically narrating this incident unfolding like Samuel L. Jackson.
“Everything okay here?” he asks, his voice gentler but still thick with protectiveness.
My heart hammers so loudly I’m surprised no one can hear it. “It’s fine,” I whisper, though my breathless voice betrays just how not fine I am. He’s still got his arm on mine.
The tourist gets up and retreats quickly, mumbling an apology as he goes. As soon as the door closes behind him, the tension breaks like a snapped fishing line.
Donna lets out a bark of laughter from the pastry case. “Looks like Captain Broody Pants has staked his claim!”
Lilith claps, practically glowing. “I love a man who defends his woman!”
I shoot them a look that’s supposed to be a glare but lacks any real heat. They’re loving this, eating it up, and honestly…maybe part of me is, too.
But I’m also frustrated. I’m independent, and I don’t need someone interfering with my life. I don’t need a protector, and I don’t need him.
When Tate steps just a little closer, the scent of salt air and cedar envelops me, grounding and dizzying all at once. His dimple flashes again as his gaze lingers on mine, warm and intimate, like it’s just the two of us in this room full of prying eyes.
And for a moment, it feels good. Too good. And I forget that I’m supposed to be mad at him.
I want to roll my eyes at him, shove him away, pretend I’m unmoved, but I’m not. My heart twists, my breath catches, and somewhere deep down, I know exactly what this means. I still care. I hate that I care. Hate that I like the way he stepped in front of me. Hate how he brushes his fingers lightly across mine as he picks up his sandwich, a featherlight touch that lingers far longer than it should.
But I do like it. I think I more than like it. I want it.
I watch him as he returns to his usual seat at the counter, sunlight sliding over his hair. He doesn’t look away. He meetsmy gaze across the bookstore, his smile soft but steady, full of quiet determination.
Outside, a pair of tourists peek in the window, curiosity written all over their faces. Wisteria Cove’s favorite soap opera continues, and the audience is absolutely captivated.
I pretend to return to work, but my gaze drifts back to him, over and over, my thoughts spinning. Every bottle, every message, every quiet, broody smile, it’s working. It’s chipping away at the walls I thought I’d built strong enough to keep him out.
And when I finally let my lips curl into the smallest smile, his answering grin is devastating.
My heart stutters and swells all at once, and all I can think is: I am in trouble.
God help me, so much trouble.
