Page 140 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

Laughter rang out, and we both turned before heading in that direction. Near the center of town, several kids were still painting pumpkins beneath strings of lights. One little boy had covered his completely black except for two white eyes. Carson crouched slightly to look as we passed.

“That one’s pretty good.” She smiled at the little boy.

The kid looked up at her with so much pride. “It’s a cat.”

“I thought so,” she said warmly, even though it was hard to tell what it was. His mother looked concerned as I stifled a laugh.

Farther down, the sidewalks became quieter. Willow Creek’s older section began past the library, where trees crowded closer to the road and houses sat farther apart.

Carson looked toward one side street. “The willow still there?”

I knew exactly what she meant. The old willow tree sat near the creek behind the original town chapel. Nobody knew just how old it really was. Older than Willow Creek, according to half the stories.

Every generation had carved something into it.

Initials.

Dates.

Names.

Promises.

“Yeah.”

Some people swore that couples who carved their names together stayed together forever. Others said carving anything into the tree meant Willow Creek would remember it even after everyone else forgot.

Dad said that was nonsense invented by teenagers who wanted a private place to make out. Mom had hit him when he said that in front of us.

“You ever carve anything?” Carson asked.

I shook my head, I had been waiting for the right person. The little voice in my head, the one that gave me the confidence to ask this beautiful woman out, kept whispering that I was looking at her.

We didn’t walk toward the tree, neither of us were ready for something so romantic on a first date. Instead, we turned back toward Main Street. Rosie’s tavern still buzzed behind us, the only place still open at this hour.

The streetlights threw warm circles across the pavement. Carson stopped beside the passenger door, waiting for me to open it.

When I didn’t open it immediately, she looked up.

Dinner was over.

The walk was over.

The date had reached the part where every good evening became something else, or ended.

I had spent two hours trying not to think about kissing her. That strategy had failed around the time she stole my fries. Now she stood close enough that I could see the faint shimmer of lip gloss she’d reapplied somewhere between the tavern and bookstore.

Her eyes dropped briefly to my mouth and then back to my eyes.

That was the sign I’d been waiting for, I needed to know she wanted this too. I stepped closer, giving her plenty of time to move away in case I read her wrong.

She didn’t move.

The night seemed quieter than it had any right to be. I lifted my hand, cupping her face, and with my other I brushed one loose strand of hair back behind her ear.

She sucked in a nervous breath at my touch. “Beau.” The way she whispered my name wasn’t a warning to stop, but a breathy plea to continue.

I leaned closer, her eyelids fluttered closed, and just as my lips were about to brush hers⁠—