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Only then I would be leaving him behind with Cindy, and since the possessive side of me that I haven’t seen in years is rearing her ugly head, I realize that I can’t do that, either. I need to behave, and I only hope that Vincent will, too, and who am I kidding? Man or not, he’s got all the instincts of a cat, and I don’t think any feline knows how to behave.

“You know, I can’t believe Kate’s been keeping you hidden. I haven’t seen you around before,” Cindy tells him. “And I would remember if I had.”

Vincent chuckles. “That’s because I’m usually hard to recognize when it isn’t Halloween.”

I snort. Yeah. He can say that again.

Cindy glances at me, clearly not understanding the joke. “Well, you picked a good time to visit. Everyone just loves it when Shadowvale hosts its annual Fall Festival. In fact, I just won the Harvest Bake-Off yesterday.”

“So I heard,” Vincent murmurs. He’d long since side-stepped away from Cindy’s touch, moving next to me so that he can rest his hand behind my head, playing with my hair as the other baker shoots daggers at me with her gaze.

She tilts up her chin. “The mayor said my pumpkin pie was the best he’s ever had.”

“He says that about a lot of things,” I mutter.

Cindy’s smile tightens. “Not about your cherry pie.”

And… there it is.

Maybe it’s because she was touching Vincent before. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent the last day wondering how the hell she came up with a pumpkin pie so similar to the one I’ve been perfecting for months.

Or maybe I really am just a sore loser.

I shrug Vincent away from me, taking a few purposeful steps toward Cindy before I snap, “Rematch.”

She blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Pumpkin versus pumpkin. Your best recipe against mine.”

Vincent moves to stand next to me, but I’m already marching away, pointing toward the cooking demonstration area farther down Main Street.

“Look. There are ovens right there. I bet they’ll let us borrow them since the demo is done with the festival closing in less than two hours. What do you say, Cindy? Same judge as yesterday. Same flavor this time. No cherry against pumpkin. Just your pumpkin pie against mine.”

Someone close enough to hear me says, “Oh, hell yeah. Where’s Mayor Pete? We have a pie challenge!”

Okay. I didn’t expect anyone else to be listening in on us, but if that means they’ll grab Mayor Pete so that we can do this, I want to fucking do this.

Cindy glances around as even more people start paying attention to us. “You want another Bake-Off, Kate? Wait until next year. I’ll win another orange ribbon to add to my collection.”

“No. That’s not what I want. I want a rematch. Tonight. We both make our pumpkin pie recipe for Mayor Pete, and he can tell us which one really is the best one he’s ever had.”

To tell the truth, I’m not sure why anyone else cares. But, let me tell you, they definitely do because the idea begins to spread through the crowd faster than gossip at a small-town hair salon. Someone runs off to find Mayor Pete. Another person grabs one of the festival organizers, making sure we can add the rematch to the schedule in between the pumpkin carving contest and the closing ceremony.

Turns out, there’s an opening at eight-thirty because the fire juggler accidentally burned his hand last night, and within five minutes, the pumpkin pie rematch has been arranged—all while Cindy stands there, slightly floundering before she regains her confidence, pats the orange ribbon pinned to her chest, and says that she’s in.

So is Mayor Pete. We’re still standing there when he suddenly appears, wearing the same ridiculous top hat he’s been wearing all week as grand marshal… the one that makes me think of the mayor of Halloweentown from The Nightmare Before Christmas… and his face lights up when someone explains that there will be more free pie involved if he agrees to judge an impromptu pie contest.

He agrees, but on the condition that we both prep, fill, and bake our pies with the entire festival acting as our audience before tasting. Since that will prove who can really bake—rather than offering a premade pie from our bakeries—I agree immediately.

It takes Cindy a couple of moments longer before she finally says, “Fine. If Kate wants to lose twice, that’s fine with me.”

A chorus of oohs erupts around us.

I smile sweetly in return. “Guess we’ll find out at eight-thirty.”

Beside me, Vincent chuckles.

The festival coordinator takes over from there, adding us to the schedule while also promising us the use of two ovens and separate prep tables. We’ll have twenty minutes to gather our ingredients from our respective bakeries before we have to return and get to work. A premade pie crust is the only thing we’re allowed to bring with us due to the amount of time left in the holiday’s festivities, and when Cindy says she doesn’t have any prepared that go with her pumpkin pie, I’m cocky enough to offer to bring one back for both of us.