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“What about the finger waggle thing?” I ask. “You did that and I forgot for a minute that I was going to call the police. You… you calmed me.”

His expression turns sheepish. “Only for a moment. And I regretted it instantly. Mates don’t use magic on each other, even when they both have it. You have my word that it won’t happen again, dear Kate.”

Of course, that only means anything if I trust his word is good. Since I’m not sure I do just yet—and I’m still on the ‘this is totally a dream’ train right about now—I’ll have to be wary of him and his magical abilities.

And that begins with my motivation to suddenly adopt a stray cat I found near the garbage in the first place.

“Did you use any to convince me to let you in and adopt you?”

Whoa. I thought I offended him before. This time I definitely did.

“Why would I do that when everyone in Shadowvale would love to call me their familiar? But I wanted my witch.”

“I’m not a witch!”

“I know,” he agrees easily. “Now. All the same, you’ve certainly bewitched me, pumpkin.”

Pumpkin again. I’ve noticed it multiple times before, but something about this time has me tossing back, “Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Pumpkin?”

“Yes.”

He studies me for a second, as though gauging whether or not he wants to be honest, before he admits, “You smell like Halloween.”

I wasn’t expecting that for an answer. “What?”

“The first time I scented you, I swore I smelled something spicy, something sweet. Cinnamon. Sugar. It’s not just because you’re a baker, either, and it’s one of the reasons I was sure you would be a witch.” His gaze travels over my face before settling on my eyes again. “Halloween. You smell like Halloween, pumpkin.”

There’s something about the way he says it that sends an unexpected flutter through my stomach.

I ignore that, too.

“But why pumpkin?” I ask. “Pumpkin is bland.”

Vincent’s eyebrows shoot up once more.

“It is,” I insist. “Plain pumpkin isn’t anything special. That’s why you add cinnamon and nutmeg and ginger and cloves. Pumpkin pie is good because of the spices.”

His smile grows slowly. “That’s my point, pumpkin. Trust me. I’ve lived with you for six weeks now. You’re nothing if not spicy, dear Kate, and if I haven’t made it clear enough yet, I like that.”

There goes that flutter again.

“Couch,” I say firmly. “I’m pretty sure that I’m still dreaming or I’ve lost my mind or something, but on the off chance that this is real… that you are real… I’m not about to invite you into my bed. I also would feel terrible, throwing you out, and discovering that I really tossed out my cat⁠—”

“I am your cat.”

His insistence on that fact is not helping me. “Exactly. So you can stay, but you have to sleep on the couch.”

I expect him to argue. To cajole. To do something—anything—to convince me that he should get to stay in my private space. After all, Mr. Whiskers made himself right at home as soon as he forgave me for buying a cat carrier online, shoving him inside of it, and taking him to the vet.

But Vincent only nods. “If that’s what my mate wants, then I’ll sleep on the couch.”

For now.

He doesn’t say it, but it’s implied, and I make a mental note to remember to lock the door behind him once he heads to the couch.

And then he grins. “After all, I fell asleep with you on the couch tonight before my tummy grumbled and I went for some crunchies. Then midnight hit, and I traded cat food for that delicious pie. I’ll sleep on the couch. I’m much closer to the refrigerator that way.” He flexes his human hands. “And I have fingers now.”