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She agrees, and then we’re off.

The Pie Chart is only a few minutes away, even on foot. Cindy will have to rush a little if she wants ingredients from her bakery, but even as she stalks away, she’s already on the phone with one of her employees to supply what she needs.

Me? I’m already mentally making a list of what I’ll have to grab when Vincent leans into me.

I jump, and he settles a calming hand on my shoulder. “Hey. Just asking… but is this really how you’d like to spend the last hours of my only day as a man?”

That takes some of the wind out of me and my determination to beat Cindy and her pumpkin pie.

I exhale. “Oh. That’s right. I… I wasn’t thinking. Cindy… she just⁠—”

His expression softens. “Pumpkin.”

“No. You’re right. This is stupid. Where’s that festival guy? We’ve got to call this off.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You have one Halloween and⁠—”

“And watching you destroy that woman with pastry will make you happy which will make me happy.” His mouth curves into a wicked grin. “Come on, my dear Kate. Let’s bake a pie.”

Twenty-five minutes later, I’m back at the festival with enough ingredients and baking supplies to make half a dozen pies because I panicked and wanted to make sure I had everything I’ll need to kick Cindy’s butt.

Vincent carried most of it for me, still wearing the ‘cat ears’ headband and catching the eye of way too many of the festival goers for my liking.

He also spent the walk back trying to convince me that the jealousy I couldn’t quite hide when Cindy came onto him is proof the mate bond is already working, while I spent it reminding him that I’m perfectly capable of finding reasons to dislike the other baker without some sort of supernatural tie between us making it so that I lose control when anyone else pays Vincent attention.

And, okay… maybe I’m struggling a little bit. I mean, I was jealous of Mrs. Robbins, for chrissakes. Maybe he has a point. The warlock is so incredibly convinced that I’m the one true love that Fate made him wait for, but when he smirks at me in such a knowing way… the answering tug low in my belly tells me: Hey. What if he’s onto something there?

For now, I’m refusing to think about it. I’m currently elbow-deep in pumpkin filling—figuratively, not literally, though there’s plenty of flour dusted across the π symbol on my apron—and I’m doing my best to give that all of my attention.

The crowd around the cooking area is larger than I’ve ever seen it. Someone has updated the chalkboard in front of the contest tent to read THE GREAT PUMPKIN PIE REMATCH, and Mayor Pete is seated at a small table near the front as if he’s presiding over a televised cooking competition instead of watching two local bakers being petty on Halloween.

I ignore everything going on around me as I work toward creating my pie.

It’s as easy as breathing. I’ve made this particular one a million times before, and considering it’s been a bestseller at my shop since September began, I can probably make the whole thing with my eyes closed.

On the plus side, I don’t need my missing recipe book because I know every step by heart. I know exactly how much cinnamon goes into it, when to add the molasses, and how a little black pepper—barely a quarter of a teaspoon—will go a long way to deepen the other spices.

About ten feet away from me, at her own table, Cindy is working on her own pie.

I deliberately refuse to look at her. I have faith in my pie, and I’ll only psych myself out if I watch what she’s doing.

Vincent had been hovering near me when we started, helping me set up all of my supplies before he stepped away from the table. He was also the one who brought Cindy the spare pie crust, only to return a minute later saying that the other baker insisted on switching with me. I guess she thought I purposely gave her a bad one or something, but since they’re both exactly the same—and crusts that I had prepped for tomorrow’s pumpkin pie bake at The Pie Chart—I just rolled my eyes and sent him back over with the other one.

That must have been satisfactory because Cindy didn’t send him back for the first crust. Instead, she started going through her own ingredients. Vincent came back to tell me that the contest was about to begin, and a few minutes later, he wandered away again.

Good. I don’t need the distraction, and Lord knows he is one hell of one.

And though I was trying desperately not to pay attention to Cindy or Vincent, I’m whisking the filling when I hear him say, “Huh,” just loud enough that I don’t miss it.

I glance up.

He’s standing several feet away, in between the two prep tables, staring at Cindy’s table.

I’m not sure what he’s looking at. She has her long black hair pulled into a lower ponytail, her back partially turned to him as she measures something into a bowl, and for a second, I can’t tell what has caught his attention.

Then Cindy moves and Vincent slinks closer to the table. My whisk falls against the bowl with a clink as I drop it, watching as Vincent goes up on his tiptoes, reaching over Cindy’s table to grab something.