Page 67 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
He shrugs. “Old Pete says if I don’t dress up, I’m banned from the harbor. So, yeah. I’m going full pirate mode for Junie.”
“Please tell me you’re going to have a sexy eye patch.”
“YouknowI am.”
I giggle, and it breaks something in the air between us. The tension that’s been simmering all evening boils over.
He’s watching me now. “You’ve got cider on your lip,” he says, voice low.
I go to wipe it, but before I can, he leans forward and brushes his thumb across my mouth.
The touch is featherlight, but it steals every coherent thought from my brain.
“Got it,” he whispers.
I swallow, hard. “Thanks.”
We’re close now. Too close to pretend we’re just friends or festival co-planners or two people who happened to share a bench-fixing moment a few days ago.
My breath hitches. So does his.
“Willa,” he says, like it’s the only word he remembers how to say.
And then he kisses me. Soft at first.
The kiss deepens, slow and deliberate, every brush of his mouth sending shivers down my spine. His hand slides to my waist, warm and steady, anchoring me as though he’s afraid I might slip away. My fingers find the sharp line of his jaw, rough with stubble, then drift higher, tangling in the damp strands at the nape of his neck.
His tongue brushes mine, tentative and teasing, and everything inside me tightens and coils, hot and sharp. Wetaste each other in that quiet, searching way, like we’re learning a language we once knew but almost forgot. He tastes like cinnamon and salt air, like hope, like every late-night fantasy I’ve tried and failed to bury.
The kiss grows bolder, hungrier. His palm flattens against the small of my back, urging me closer until my chest presses to his. My own hands curl in his hair, pulling him deeper, refusing to let go. His thumb strokes slow circles into my hip, sending sparks scattering through me.
His body leans into mine, solid, unshakable, yet every movement of his mouth is careful, reverent, like he’s memorizing me. I part my lips, give him more, and the sound that rumbles low in his throat sets my skin aflame.
And suddenly, nothing else exists. Just us and this kiss that feels like coming home and burning down all at once.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, as if neither of us can quite let the moment go.
“Well,” I say, smiling so big my cheeks ache. “That’s definitely not how I thought tonight would end either.”
Tate chuckles, his thumb tracing circles at my hip. “Yeah, well. I told you I hoped it’d get better.”
“It has.”
Chapter 20
Tate
The Wisteria Cove Quilt Guild is ruthless. They look like sweet little old ladies with beaded sweaters and glasses on chains, but don’t be fooled, these women could run a small country, plot anyone’s demise, or rob a bank and get away with it. And tonight? They’ve turned the community center into an all-out fall fantasyland for the annual Autumn Quilt Raffle & Chili Cook-Off. In the past, they prepared for this every year. Always have, and it looks like nothing’s changed. Only maybe they got even more hardcore; it’s hard to tell.
I’m here for moral support. Or I was until Pearl shoved a raffle ticket into my hand with a wink and muttered something about“manifesting fate.”
I don’t know what that means, but I’m pretty sure I’ve just been hexed.
“All right, darlings!” comes a voice from the front. Carlene, queen of the Quilt Guild and notorious for once knitting an entire scarf during a town meeting, raises a hand. “This year’s prize is our handmadePumpkin Patch Memoriesquilt, stitched with love and just a touch of gossip.”
Everyone claps.
“The Maren sisters inspired this beauty,” she adds. “Willa herself picked the fabrics last year.”
