Page 6 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
Chapter 3
Willa
The morning has settled into that perfect golden lull that happens late afternoon this time of year. The shop is humming softly, warm with the scent of cinnamon and roasted coffee and faintly sweet, dried orange from the garland strung over the windows.
The door sways gently every time the wind pushes against it, and the sunlight slants just right across the old oak floors, catching on a few scattered crumbs I haven’t gotten to yet. It’s cozy chaos today, my favorite kind.Rowan's perched at the counter with her tea, methodically labeling her newest batch of tea blends with that minimalist, witchy aesthetic she insists on.Ivy is cross-legged in one of the mismatched armchairs, one boot kicked off, her tangled hair escaping from her beanie, working her way through a half-eaten pumpkin scone as she flips the pages in a new romance novel.
And right now, as the last customers finally drift out, leaving behind only the faint smell of lavender tea, it’s just us: a rare moment where Wisteria Books & Brews belongs entirely to the three chaotic forces of nature otherwise known as the Maren sisters.
“Sooo,” Ivy says, her smile as bright as the bakery case, “Guess who’s the new official employee at the Doggy Daycare? The owner told me I radiate positive energy. All the dogs love me.”
“Oh, you definitely radiate something,” Rowan says, not looking up as she adds another label.
“Dogs just… sense I’m their person,” Ivy says, taking a bite of her scone.
“Or they just know you’ve always got treats in your pockets,” Rowan says with a smirk.
I snort-laugh, grabbing a rag and moving behind the counter to tidy up. My heart feels light and warm. This simple rhythm between us is something I’ll never take for granted. I built this life, and I love it.
It makes me wonder what Tate would think of this place. Would he even care? And do I even care? Wisteria Books & Brews barely existed back when Tate Holloway ghosted this town like he was better than all of us. He left like none of us even mattered. That jerk left without calling or anything. I didn’t just survive. I thrived and built something freaking cool as hell here.
I slip a dish towel over my shoulder, stacking a few mugs near the sink, when Ivy pipes up again.
“Hey,” she teases, “remember when you used to pine over Tate Holloway like it was your full-time job?”
Rowan chuckles, and I roll my eyes. I hate it when they try to read my mind.
“Oh, yeah. Tate,” she says in a high-pitched voice. “I just love you Tate, I still love you and pine for you when I'm all alone in my bookstore,” she says as she makes kissing noises and faces to go with it. Nice.
“Oh, please,” I say, deliberately casual, pretending to be insulted. “Give me some credit. I’m far too busy for that nonsense.”
I glance over at them with a grin, feeling a little too comfortable, a little too free to let my mouth run now that I know we’re alone.
“Besides, you remember what he was like back then,” I continue, waving a hand as I lean against the counter, enjoying the rhythm of this conversation. “Always brooding around town, thinking his quiet scowls were irresistible, which, okay, fine, they kind of were.”
Both Rowan and Ivy nod and grin.
“And do I need to remind you how he just up and left?” I ask, my voice pitching up as I snap a stack of napkins into place. “No goodbye. No note. Nothing. Just Houdini’d right out of here. Honestly? Classic romcom villain move. He probably thinks he’s this sad Taylor Swift song, but he's just a guy who ghosted us all.”
I’m halfway through my dramatic performance when I notice Rowan suddenly freeze mid-labeling.
Her pen hovers inches from the jar, eyes locked on a point somewhere directly behind me.
Then Ivy chokes on a laugh that sounds half like panic, half delight.
And that’s when the butterflies hit my stomach, because I know this look and sudden hush. This stillness that only ever means one thing. I let out a long sigh, my heart thudding hard against my ribs even before I speak the words I know are true. “He’s behind me… isn’t he?”
Neither of my sisters answer. They don’t have to. I swear the air itself shifts as I turn slowly, deliberately, unwilling to rush this moment because whatever it is, whatever I find standing in that doorway,
And there he is. Tate Holloway. Framed perfectly in the doorway of my shop, a world I built after he left, and yet somehow looking like he belongs here all the same.
Ball cap pulled low, sun-faded Red Sox logo shadowing those dark green eyes that used to undo me with a glance.
His hair is longer now, dark waves brushing his collar, a little wild, a little unruly, and unfairly perfect.
A neatly trimmed beard sharpens the lines of his jaw, making him look older, rougher… but even more devastatingly handsome. And I’m not even sure how that is remotely possible.
“Well, I called it. He's still hot…” Ivy whispers loudly, and everyone hears it.
