Page 34
“What do you think, pumpkin? Isn’t it perfect?”
You know what?
Yes. Yes it is.
EIGHT
A CHANCE AT FOREVER
By the time we leave The Pie Chart together and head toward the Fall Festival, Vincent carrying all five pies as though they weigh nothing to him, I’m starting to think that I might have made a terrible mistake when I agreed to let Vincent come with me (though, if I’m being honest, it’s not like I had a choice… he make it clear there was no leaving him behind and, welp, I believed him).
And it’s not because I’m afraid of him. Weirdly enough, that ship sailed sometime between waking up with his arm around me this morning and watching him dole out Halloween candy to little kids with barely disguised glee. Despite the fact that he can make things like clothing appear with a snap of his fingers, move tables without actually touching them, and probably curse me with something more unpleasant than an eighteen-pound cat if he really wanted to, I’m not afraid of Vincent at all.
That might actually be the problem because instead of being scared of him, I’m attracted to him.
Very, very attracted to him.
And while I can tell myself that it’s only because he’s gorgeous—and he is, the bastard—I’m not entirely sure I believe that anymore.
It was easier last night when he was the naked pie thief in my kitchen claiming to be my cat. It was even easier this morning when I was trying to make pies while he sat on my counters, stole my pumpkin pie and a piping bag of freshly whipped cream, and generally made himself a nuisance because, despite the different packaging on the outside, that was Mr. Whiskers. After six weeks of being his cat mama, I knew how to deal with Mr. Whiskers.
After spending an entire day with Vincent, though, I think I’m beginning to know how to deal with him, too.
More importantly, I think I like him.
Shit.
Thankfully, I have Mrs. Robbins and her five pies to distract me from my own insanity for the moment.
She’s waiting exactly where we agreed to meet, not far from the front entrance to the festival, marked by a balloon arch made up of orange, black, and purple balloons. Main Street has been closed off to traffic, leaving the entire downtown area open to pedestrians, and Shadowvale has once again gone all out. I can’t help but smile as I hear the speakers near the pumpkin-carving area blasting “Monster Mash” loudly enough that I can still hear it over the chatter of hundreds of people.
It smells incredible, too. Hot apple cider, kettle corn, fried dough, cinnamon, and something smoky from one of the barbecue vendors farther down Main that has my stomach grumbling. Normally, after spending most of my day baking and sneaking bites from my pies because I’m ‘taste-testing’ them, I wouldn’t be so hungry yet, but there’s something about festival food that has me eager to try it all.
Mrs. Robbins is impossible to miss. A woman in her early fifties, for Halloween she’s dressed as a stereotypical witch, complete with a purple pointed hat, striped stockings, and enough green face paint to make me wonder how long it took her to get ready today. She’s lugging a shiny silver bag on wheels behind her. She waves the second she sees me, and since Vincent insisted on carrying all of her pies, I’m free to wave back as we approach her together.
“Thank you so much, Kate. And your helper, too. Here. I have a Hulken bag I brought to transport the pies to my car, if you’d like to help me load them, Mr… oh.”
Yeah. Oh.
Vincent crouched down, lowering the pie boxes to the asphalt before placing them into her bag, one by one. Most of his face had been concealed by the stack of pies—leaving his eyes available to see, plus the cat ears on his head—but once he wasn’t hiding behind them anymore, the older woman pauses, giving him a look of surprise and interest.
I try not to be annoyed by that.
I’ve gotten the same exact look from at least three women since we left the shop, even with his face partially concealed, and I’m beginning to resent how much I get it.
Mrs. Robbins looks at Vincent, looks at me, then slowly looks back at Vincent even as she asks, “Who’s your helper, Kate?”
“This is Vincent.”
“Her boyfriend,” Vincent adds, rising up from his crouch.
My head whips toward him so quickly, I nearly trip over the curb. “He is not my boyfriend.”
“It’s Halloween,” he says. “I can be whatever I want to be today.”
I glare at him, mainly because I’m suddenly flushing and both Vincent and Mrs. Robbins are aware of that fact. “You’re a cat, Mr. Whiskers.”
“If you say so, pumpkin.”
