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“I appreciate it, Cindy,” I say when I’m sure I’m not about to point out that I could whip up five pumpkin pies in the time it took me to create my cherry pie masterpiece. “Maybe you’ll make one next year for the contest and I’ll see how it’s really done.”

She laughs. “Sounds like a challenge. You’re on. I’m sure I have a recipe somewhere for a harvest cherry pie.”

I had three until I misplaced my recipe book, but two of them are locked-up tight in my noggin even without having to consult my computer. Maybe next year I’ll try the other one—or improve on it—and see how my cherry pie stacks up against Cindy’s.

Or maybe my competitive side will get the better of me and I’ll bake a pumpkin pie to see if Cindy’s really is the best one Mayor Pete has tasted…

I give her a thin-lipped smile, then walk away when someone else walks over to her to congratulate her on her win. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that it’s the mayor, and he’s still gushing over her dessert.

“That was absolutely delicious,” he says, and I try to tune out his voice while searching for my pie among the others on the judging table. “That was no ordinary pumpkin pie.” He pats his belly. “I consider myself an expert. There was something extra in there. You must tell me your secret.”

“I hope you’re not asking me to share my recipe,” Cindy says, teasingly. “I work so hard to develop each of my bakes. Each recipe is like my baby. I have to protect them.”

“Oh. Of course. I would never… but if you could just tell me what that certain something I just can’t figure out is, I would really appreciate it.”

I hate that my eyes roll so hard at the exchange between Cindy and Mayor Pete, it makes me dizzy, especially since I feel the same way about my own pies. I give my head a clearing shake. Don’t be a sore loser, Kate. Cindy won fair and square⁠—

“Because it’s you, Mr. Mayor, sure. I added a pinch of black pepper to my pumpkin spice mix, plus some dark molasses to deepen the flavor profile. Oh, and there was something about orange zest, too, for freshness. I did that.”

I blink.

Wait—

What?

My pie won a black ribbon.

It was a second place prize. I should be glad. Second out of the twelve entries… that’s not bad. And, sure, I came out of nowhere and won with my pecan pie last Halloween so I already have an orange ribbon posted on the wall behind the counter downstairs in my pie shop. Cindy had won each of the two years before that. She was the crowd favorite. I was the upstart. It was probably a fluke that the new piemaker in town won last year—and I’d believe that if it wasn’t for what I overheard Cindy saying to Mayor Pete when I went to collect my ribbon.

Ground pepper. Molasses. Fresh orange zest. While each one of those is known to enhance the flavor of an ordinary pumpkin pie, I created a recipe a couple of years ago that added all three to my custard before baking. It took a ton of trial and error to get the proportions just right to highlight the spiciness of the pie while also keeping it both earthy and fresh, and I was so proud when I figured it out.

It has to be a coincidence. Cindy has owned the Artful Oven Bake Shoppe for a while. She’s as devoted to baking as I am, and it’s possible that she came up with the same recipe herself.

And yet…

I’m being ridiculous. I let myself into the back entrance of The Pie Chart, putting the remainder of the cherry pie into the fridge and fiddling with the black ribbon as I start for the stairs that lead to my cozy apartment.

Mr. Whiskers is waiting for me at the top of them.

I point at the cat. “Don’t ask.”

He cocks his head.

I sigh. “So… I lost.”

His ears twitch.

“To Cindy,” I huff out. Perfect, pretty Cindy and her pumpkin pie that might have the same secret ingredients as one I’m incredibly proud of, but that has to be a coincidence… right?

I know Mr. Whiskers is a cat. I know he doesn’t really understand what I’m saying, that—if anything—he’s only reacting to my disappointment and my tone, but I feel a little better when he hisses in sympathy as his tail smacks the wooden stair.

“Exactly,” I agree as I reach the landing. Pausing only to pat his head, I step into the apartment. My. Whiskers trots behind me as I drop my purse onto the little table beside the open door.

Maybe it’s because I live alone, I’m an only child, my parents have their own lives, and I don’t really have that many friends these days, but I talk to Mr. Whiskers a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Probably more than is healthy, though I decide that at least it’s better than talking to myself.

See, the nice thing about cats is that they don’t interrupt you, especially when you’re ranting after the timer didn’t go off and you ended up burning the lemon meringue pie. Then again, the not-so-nice thing is that Mr. Whiskers has very expressive green eyes, and even though he can’t interrupt me, I’m pretty sure he judges me anyway.

Like now.