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Another thump, thump, thump as he plods his way past me, heading down to the kitchen first.

“Or you can join me,” I call after the cat.

That’s what he does. That’s what he always does.

I’ve only had him for about six weeks, but one thing I’ve learned about my new cat is that Mr. Whiskers does whatever the hell Mr. Whiskers wants. For a former stray, he’s taken to being an indoor cat surprisingly well. He seems to have no interest in going back outside so far, he sleeps at the foot of my bed every night, and he’s decided that The Pie Chart and the apartment above it now belong to him.

I guess I’m just here to pay the rent.

Six weeks is long enough that we’ve developed a routine. He’ll escort me to the kitchen, acting like my chaperone though we both know he’s here because he likes to eat his morning can of wet food while I start prepping the day’s pies. After that, he usually naps in the purple cat bed I got him when I still thought he could be Mrs. Whiskers, and I bake, bake, bake before opening the shop.

At that point, he’ll meander his way back upstairs, coming down to visit me a few times a day until it’s time to close and I join Mr. Whiskers upstairs to eat dinner, curl up on the couch, and watch television together.

I never thought I was a cat lady. I’m thirty-three. I’ve never had a pet before. Never had a relationship that lasted more than a few months before being the homebody piemaker with the early mornings, early nights, and an obsession with creating the best treats ever meant that my boyfriends moved on when they realized they couldn’t compete with my stand mixer and the book of recipes I’ve been working on since I was a teenager. I was happy to spend my time alone in a kitchen—especially my own commercial kitchen—and never thought that would change… until Mr. Whiskers.

There was something about him. The way he showed up behind my shop, crying and limping, looking up at me as if I could be his salvation… of course I had to rescue him. And as insane as it sounds, I felt such a strong connection to him from the start that I couldn’t just get the local vet to treat him, then return him to his turf. He took to being an indoor cat so incredibly well, I just had to keep him.

Didn’t I?

Ah, well. I did, and though I never thought I’d be willing to clean a litter box, I just grab a pair of gloves and a scoop and remind myself that when you love someone, you’ll do just about anything for them.

Me? I fell head over heels for an eighteen-pound chonk with thick yet deceptively fluffy black fur, bright green eyes, and a gentle mrow that makes my heart swell inside of my chest every time he bumps my ankle with his head in pure affection.

Mr. Whiskers is waiting for me as I reach the bottom of the stairs, finding the light switch so that I can flip it on. He brushes past my feet, his fluffy tail held high as he stalks over to the empty food bowl I keep on the lower floor.

There are three parts to the first floor: the back room, including the pantry and the storage area; the commercial kitchen with counters, a sink, two oversized refrigerators, and four ovens; and the actual shop where I put out an array of pies in the display case and serve customers. I try to keep Mr. Whiskers out of the actual kitchen and the storefront as best as I can, but as long as he stays off the counters, I consider it a victory.

I take what I can get.

The Pie Chart has been mine for a year and a half, and there’s still something about walking into my kitchen every morning that makes the ridiculously early wake-up call worth it.

I love my shop. I love the black-and-white checkerboard floor out front, the glass display case that I keep stocked with whatever I feel like baking that morning, and the chalkboard menu behind the counter. I love that there are only six little tables because that’s all I could fit into the space and that the front windows look out over Maple Street, one off from Main. I love the Halloween decorations—like the paper spiders and black cats I hung up—that fit the theme of Shadowvale once fall starts.

I even love the apartment upstairs that came with it.

It’s small, but it’s cozy. One bedroom, one bathroom, and a kitchen that’s barely big enough for me to turn around in when Mr. Whiskers decides that the best place for his big body is directly behind my feet. The living room overlooks Maple Street, too, and there’s an old claw-foot tub in the bathroom that almost makes up for the fact that the bedroom barely squeezes in my queen-sized bed.

When I first did my research, then came to Shadowvale looking for somewhere to open my own pie shop, I saw the empty storefront with the apartment included and knew I had to have it. The rent being suspiciously cheap definitely helped.

Now, a year and a half later, I have my regulars. I make enough to keep the lights on. Most days, I even manage to pay myself. I don’t have a staff, but I don’t need one. Shadowvale is a small town. Shops like mine are usually closed by four, leaving me time in the evening to prep for tomorrow, relax, and head to bed early.

I’ve had a few out-of-towners come in because influencers talk about my pies online. That’s a good boost to business. And, of course, I won the Harvest Pie Bake-Off last Halloween, and that helped me get my name out there—in Shadowvale, at least.

Today, I’m hoping to do it again.

The Fall Festival has been going on all week, but the thirtieth and thirty-first are always the biggest days. The Harvest Pie Bake-Off is today in particular, leaving Halloween more for tricks and treats and showing off costumes. I spent most of last night preparing my entry so that all I have to do this morning is bake it.

I decided to go with cherry. For a minute, I considered pumpkin. It would make sense. It’s Halloween, after all, but everyone expects pumpkin. Me? I wanted my pie to stand out. Besides, the cherry recipe I chose is one of my favorites. It took me forever to get the filling right, and I spent ages on the lattice crust⁠—

Something crashes out front.

My head whips around. A quick peek reveals that my cat is nowhere in sight. Which means…

“Mr. Whiskers?”

Silence. Not like I expected my pet to answer me—he’s an intelligent bugger, but he can’t talk because, well, he’s a cat—but I thought I might hear the door separating the back rooms from the front swing open as he nonchalantly returns to the kitchen.

When I don’t, I wipe my hands on my apron and push through the swinging door myself.