Page 15

You know my name. You somehow broke into my shop. You know about the Bake-Off, and you’re acting way too pleasant for someone who has bad intentions, and, for some reason, I must be as nuts as you are because a feeling low in my gut tells me that you’re not dangerous. That I do know you. That you don’t want to hurt me… and because I’m just asking for real trouble if I say any of that, what comes out is:

“You’re naked!”

He peeks down at himself as if only just realizing that his dick is hanging out—and I noticed. Damn it, I tried not to, but I did.

“Yes.”

“You broke into my pie shop,” I add accusingly, doing my best to keep my gaze on his face instead of… lower.

That’s why I can see the fervent way he shakes his head as he says: “No.”

I let that one go because it’s obvious he’s lying. Just like it’s obvious that October chill isn’t affecting him⁠—

I gesture at the pie on the counter. “You’re eating my pie with your hands.”

He glances at them as though this is the first time he’s noticed that. “Sorry about the mess. I haven’t used them in a while.”

Huh? What does that even mean?

I back up another step, my foot finding the stairs. Phone, I think. My phone is upstairs and I need it.

He watches me closely.

I don’t release my hold on the knife. “I’m going upstairs. I’m calling the police. If you know what’s good for you, you’d be gone before they get here. And you… you better not follow me upstairs, either.”

His eyes narrow. “Don’t do that.”

“Well, that’s not surprising. You don’t want me to call the police because you’re a naked lunatic who broke into my home.”

“I didn’t break in,” he says again.

I scoff. “Then how did you get in here? The backdoor was just open and you thought you should come in and see what The Pie Chart has to offer? Because, I’ll tell you something, buddy, I don’t leave any doors open. I have a cat now⁠—”

My voice cuts off as I stop dead in my tracks.

My cat.

Where is my cat?

“Mr. Whiskers?” Where is he? It’s easy to avoid his dick when I’m frantically searching the kitchen for my cat. Despite the obvious—that the crash I heard before had to be the naked pie thief breaking in for a meal—my ‘asleep two minutes ago’ brain is still sure that the big black cat is somewhere down here. “Mr. Whiskers?!”

“Oh. That’s right.” The intruder sucks the cherry filling off of each finger in succession, doing his best to clean them as he adds, “I should probably tell you. My name is Vincent. Vincent Morrow.”

Wonderful. He’s a pie thief and a moron. When I go upstairs and call the police, I have a name to go with the whackjob who broke into my pie shop. But first⁠—

“Mr. Whiskers?” I repeat.

Absolute silence this time. I’m grateful the stranger—Vincent—stayed quiet, but what about Mr. Whiskers? As I’ve learned in my small amount of time as a cat owner, hearing a crash is bad, but silence… that can be worse. I imagine it’s like having a toddler, only when Mr. Whiskers is getting into trouble, I have the feeling it’s a whole lot more on purpose than a two-year-old.

It doesn’t help that there’s a naked stranger in my kitchen, and I have no idea what he did to my cat. Did he hurt him in his quest to streak in here and steal some of my pie? Did he open the door and Mr. Whiskers escaped? Did⁠—

“Baby?” My voice goes up an octave. “Where are you?”

I don’t know what it is that I said, but Vincent’s expression suddenly changes. He grins in pure ‘cat that got the canary’ pleasure, and I wish I didn’t notice that it makes him even more attractive—and he’s a naked pie thief! He shouldn’t be attractive at all!

“You call me ‘baby’ when I’m not around? I’m thirty-one years old, Kate, but you can call me ‘baby’ if you want. I like it.”

I freeze for a moment, the knife dipping as the repercussion of his comment slams into me. What the… “What did you just say to me?”