Page 46 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
She disappears behind the counter and returns with one. Of course, she has tools. She’s running this place and running it well. I’m impressed with how organized and methodical she is with this place and with everything she does.
When I crouch to fix it, she leans down beside me to watch. Close. Too close.
Her shoulder brushes mine, and my breath gets shallow. The scent of cinnamon and old paper clings to her sweater. Her hand lands lightly on the edge of the frame, fingers just inches from mine.
“How do you always know how to fix things?” she asks quietly.
I tighten the screw, heart pounding. “I don’t. I just try.”
She’s watching me. Like she’s trying to figure me out.
“I remember when your dad would always take the time to show you how to fix things,” she says softly. “Once he even had me help. I was maybe ten? He let me hold the flashlight and told me I had steady hands.”
I look up. She’s smiling at the memory, but her eyes are wet around the corners.
“I miss them both,” she admits, voice raw. “I miss knowing someone always had the answers.”
“I know,” I say, my throat catching as I swallow. “I miss them too.”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, so quietly I almost miss it. “It hurt so much, watching my mom try to stay strong after he was gone. Like…she was folding in on herself. Grieving and smiling at the same time. Like she didn’t want us to see her fall apart.”
I straighten up. We’re still too close. Her shoulder touches my chest now. She doesn’t move.
“Sometimes I think that’s why I love fiction books so much,” she says. “They’re safe pain. You feel it, but you know it’s notreal. You know the ending’s coming. You know someone wrote it, and it’s not real pain, not usually, anyway.”
“But real life?” I say.
She nods. “That hurts in a way that doesn’t always get wrapped up.”
God, I want to kiss her. I’ve missed her so much. And she’s finally letting me see her. All of her. Not the careful shop owner or the stubborn Maren sister, but the woman underneath who’s been carrying grief like a backpack full of bricks and still shows up every day with a book in hand and hope on her face. Still pours her heart out to this community and is the one who includes and loves everyone.
“I wish I could take all the pain away, Willa.”
She looks at me then. Fully. And it’s not guarded this time.
“I used to think you were the storm,” she whispers. “But maybe instead, you’re the anchor.”
“What do you mean?” I ask softly, equally intrigued and afraid of her answer.
“You hurt me by leaving. But maybe you were always meant to come back.”
My throat tightens. “You want the truth?”
She nods.
“I couldn’t stay away if I tried,” I say. “Not just because I grew up here. Not just because the docks are familiar or because fishing is all I really know. But because of you. Because every time I try to walk away from this town, it pulls me back with your voice, or your laugh, or the way you belong. I want to belong.”
Her breath catches. “Tate…”
We’re so close I can feel her heartbeat through her sweater. I could lean forward, just a few inches, and finally know what her lips taste like when she’s not guarding them behind a wall of stubbornness.
She doesn’t move. I don’t either. But the tension is electric, thick, dizzying.
“You know,” Lilith calls from the back room, “I think you both forgot I was still here.”
We both whip around.
She stands in the doorway and grins from ear to ear as she shrugs on her jacket.
