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Oh, that’s not good.
Because Vincent is a virgin. Vincent is also my cat.
And if I lose my mind and sleep with him before midnight tonight, according to Vincent, that will make this whole mate thing very, very permanent.
But does that stop me?
Not even a little.
NINE
REMATCH
So… kissing Vincent might have been a big mistake.
It wasn’t a bad kiss. I kind of wish it was. If he’d been a crap kisser, this whole thing would be a whole lot easier. I’d let him down gently, wait until midnight, and start researching how to re-home your pet cat in the morning because no way in hell can I keep Mr. Whiskers now that I know the truth.
But that’s the problem. It was a fantastic kiss, and as Vincent and I leave the bench behind and wander back toward the heart of the Fall Festival, I can’t stop thinking about how good his mouth felt against mine—or the way he learned very quickly what I like after I kissed him first.
Vincent, meanwhile, looks far too pleased with himself. He’s walking close enough that his arm brushes mine every few steps, and there’s a smug little curve to his lips that tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking about.
I bump his hip. “You can stop smiling like that, you know.”
“Like what?”
“Like the cat that ate the canary.” It suits him, but still.
Instead of answering me, he just widens his shit-eating grin.
I give him a sidelong look. “It was just one kiss,” I remind him.
“Two.”
“Hang on… you’re counting?”
There’s that arm of his again, sliding behind my back, holding me close as though he has any right to do so… and less than twenty-four hours after I met him, he somehow got it, didn’t he?
“Of course I’m counting. I waited thirty-nine years for them.”
Okay. Gotta say, that shuts me up for a minute or two.
Fortunately, the festival gives me plenty of other things to focus on. We missed the seven o’clock costume parade—though I see a boy about the age of ten, wearing a blow-up fish attached to his brown pants and holding a fishing pole that’s linked to the top of the fishy wearing an orange ribbon so that’s neat—with the winner of the pumpkin carving contest due to be announced at seven-thirty.
The Fall Festival is slated to have a live performance of “You Put a Spell on Me” by Monique Garrison—another witch, Vincent murmurs—at its nine o’clock closing. Now that I know witches are real, I mention avoiding that, and Vincent just grins to think that we’ll be heading home with three hours to spare.
For now, we’re just walking together. I ask Vincent if he’d like to share a funnel cake with me, knowing full well that this warlock is a bottomless pit. He agrees, of course, and we’re just heading toward the fried food stand—again—when I hear a voice I recognize.
“... and Mayor Pete said it was the best pumpkin pie he’s ever tasted.”
My good mood? Gone.
I know I should ignore her. I wish it was as easy as that. Unfortunately, I hear her voice and I… I just stop walking.
Vincent takes another step before noticing I’m no longer beside him. He follows my pointed stare toward Cindy Hargrove, who is standing near one of the vendor booths selling Thanksgiving and Harvest-themed potholders. She has her orange ribbon pinned prominently to the front of her black sweater.
My black ribbon is still pinned to my corkboard because, while I like seeing it, I don’t exactly show my prize ribbons off… unlike Cindy.
She’s also surrounded by a handful of people, loudly recounting yesterday’s Bake-Off win as if the entire town wasn’t there to watch her win. From what I can overhear from a couple of feet away, her victory was apparently the culmination of years of hard work, natural talent, and knowing just the right unique ingredients to add to a classic to make it a prize-winning bake.
