Page 33 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
A few days later, the community center is utter chaos, which, honestly, feels exactly right for Wisteria Cove’s Annual Pie Baking Contest. The aroma of every type of pie you can imagine fills the air. Kids dart between tables, playing games and having fun. Wisteria Cove takes this event very seriously and people work hard all year to perfect the best pie to share and win the contest. Donna’s already barking orders at volunteers with a wooden spoon in hand like it’s a microphone. And somehow, despite my very vocal protests, Tate and I have been roped into this as well.
Because of course we have. Donna and my mom said it’s part of our committee duties. Whatever. I don’t remember my mom ever having to do this when she was in charge. They’re justsetting us up again, and I’ve come to expect it now. They’re all relentless.
The whole town seems thrilled about it, naturally. I’m pretty sure they consider the main event to be not the pies, but the spectacle of me sitting next to Tate Holloway at a table for two solid hours.
“Perfect pairing!” Donna declares with a wink that makes me stare at her skeptically.
“Donna, what book are you working on right now?”
She grins even bigger. “Oh, just a small town second chance romance about a broody fisherman and a smitten bookstore owner.”
I sigh. Donna has written over a hundred romance novels over the past thirty years, and many of them have featured real-life people and stories in our small town. She brings in a lot of tourists every year. But the funny part is that she never does social media or interviews, so no one actually knows what she looks like or who she actually is when people ask. So when tourists flock here and see an old lady knitting on a park bench, they would never think that it’s her. I’ve even watched her speak to tourists about her books before, and they do not know that they’re speaking to the author. And no one in our town would dare tell on her, either. She’s been great at keeping our town thriving. And while this town will gossip relentlessly about each other, they won’t share important details with tourists.
Tate settles into the chair beside me, close enough that our knees brush beneath the table. That familiar scent, salt air, cedar, and something distinctly Tate, wraps around me before I can steel myself. I sneak a glance at him. He looks so at ease, leaning back in his chair like he hasn’t noticed.
Or maybe he has and is enjoying the effect.
I try to ignore how my pulse jumps when he leans forward to whisper, “Ready to eat pie with me, Willa?”
“Yes,” I mutter, though a smile tugs at my lips despite myself. “I’m always available for pie.”
“Just pie?” he teases and nudges me with his shoulder.
The warmth of his shoulder brushing mine is completely casual, completely innocent…and yet it sends a ripple straight through me, settling somewhere low and achy. I shouldn’t let it. I shouldn’t read into every little thing he says, every smile, every touch. And the way he’s looking at me right now, playful, sure, but with that familiar glint in his eyes like he’s testing the line between us, makes my heart stutter.
The first pie arrives, and we set about our very serious judging duties. I keep my head down, determined to remain professional, until Tate cuts a perfect bite of cherry pie, lifts his fork, and holds it toward me.
The entire room goes silent.
A chorus of delighted gasps follows Donna’s gleeful shout: “Feed her, Tate! Feed her!”
I shoot him a warning look. “Don’t you dare.”
His grin is infuriating. “Part of the judging process,” he says smoothly, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
And because my pride has apparently gone out the window along with my common sense, I lean forward and take the bite. His eyes never leave mine as I close my lips around the fork. The pie is good, tart and sweet, but it’s nothing compared to the taste of Tate’s attention lingering on my skin.
Not even able to stand it, I let out a moan and cover my mouth. “That is divine.”
Donna hoots from the sidelines. “If that’s not chemistry, I don’t know what is!”
My mother takes all of this in as if she isn’t surprised in the least.
The people around us erupt with laughter over something that Donna and Lilith say, and more people glance over. I feelmy cheeks flush deeper. But I can’t help it; a laugh bubbles up from my throat, genuine and warm. The town is eating this up. And I have to admit: so am I.
Tate leans close, his voice a low rumble meant just for me. “You gonna share that pie, or keep making me jealous?”
I blink, startled, fork halfway to my mouth. “You want a bite?”
“Mm.” His gaze locks on mine, unreadable. “I wantyourbite.”
Heat floods my cheeks. My fingers tighten around the fork, but before I can move, his hand comes up warm, steady, wrapping lightly around my wrist. He guides the fork the rest of the way, his eyes never leaving mine, and I can do nothing but watch as he leans in and closes his lips around the piece I’d just lifted.
My breath stutters. My heart thumps so loudly I’m sure the whole room can hear it.
He lingers just a moment, pulling back slowly, and then drags the edge of his tongue along the fork where my mouth had been seconds before. My throat goes dry. My pulse races.
For half a second, I think he’s doing it for show, hamming it up for the table, playing into the town’s relentless matchmaking. But when I glance around, no one’s watching. Everyone’s busy chatting, waiting for the next pie to be judged.
