Page 56 of Halloween Town

It was so domestic, so damn intimate, real, and easy and normal. He waited for regret to show up, then fear. Nothing bubbled up, and he frowned, a little shocked. He was so used to being on his own, of having this house to himself, the stillness, the quiet. Normally, music like that, a jaunty, happy tune, would set his teeth on edge, and he always avoided the morning after with his one-night stands. Dealing with someone else in his space before he had coffee was usually beyond his skill set.

But this was Poppy, and she belonged in this house. Unsettled by his happy homemaker thoughts, he backtracked. Of course he’d think like that: for the first twenty years of his life, Poppy was as much a feature of this house as Grandpa and Grandma M.—she belonged here, possibly even more than he did. He was just caught up in the past and his memories…

Thom padded over to her, wound his arms around her waist, and kissed her bare neck. When she tipped her head back to kiss his mouth, he sank into the kiss, tasting coffee on her lips. Resting his chin on her shoulder, he looked at the disaster zone forming on his table. She’d already made one pie, yellow and anemic, the color of pastel poo, and he winced, hoping that he wouldn’t have to taste-test it later. There were the beginnings of the filling of another pie, this one was a pale pink—made from what? A whisper of cherries, a hint of strawberries?—and there was more filling on the table’s surface and on the floor than there was in the bowl.

Thom sighed. It might be easier to set fire to the kitchen than clean it up. “Why are you baking, Pops?” he asked.

Poppy turned in his arms and placed her hands on his pecs. Without looking down, he knew he had two flour handprints on his long-sleeved navy T-shirt. “I’m practicing for the upcoming Bewitched Bake Off.”

First he’d heard of it. Then again, he only frequented the hardware store and The Bar, where discussing ghosts, the paranormal and Halloween-based events was banned. If you were caught, per Jasper’s rules, you had to buy the entire bar a drink of their choice. It could be, depending on how busy the bar was, and it often was, an expensive mistake. “Which is?”

“Do you remember the baking competition Grandma M. always entered when we were kids?”

“Sure, she won most years. Not a surprise since her pumpkin pie was to die for.” He glanced down at the table and took in the pale-yellow pie. Oh, God, he hoped that wasn’t Poppy’s version of it.

“Well, Luna took that tradition and turned it into the Bewitched Bake off⁠—”

“Of course she did.” Because a bake-off couldn’t just be a bake-off, it had to be Halloweenified.

“—and anyone can enter. It’s happening next weekend, but there are new rules. The recipes must be heritage or symbolic, and you must explain what memories it stirs or what significance it holds. It has to have a story.”

Because Poppy was, at her core, sentimental and a lover of stories and history, of course Luna’s concept would appeal to her.

“It’s a big event, everyone dresses up in a costume, and using spells to improve the baking is prohibited.”

And she said that with a completely straight face. His eyebrows rose. “And how could anyone tell whether a spell was used or not?” he asked, trying not to laugh. God, this town, it was absurd.

Poppy’s earnest expression didn’t change. “The committee brings in an out-of-town witch who can detect whether magic is used.”

Of course they did.

“And you want to enter?” Thom asked.

“Yes, with Grandma M.’s pumpkin and cherry pies.”

Pulling out of his arms, she walked over to his old-as-shit oven—the one Grandma M. used—and peered at the settings. “Hell, I forgot to put the oven on.” She turned some dials, and Thom thought about telling her that the oven had been misfiring ever since he moved in, and probably before that.

But judging by the trainwreck table, a faulty oven was the least of her problems. When she walked back over to him, he reached for her, hands on her hips, his lips on her temple, half undone by how crazy-but-also-normal this all felt. He waited to flinch, for the urge to retreat, and it didn’t materialize.

Strange.

“Any chance of coffee?” he asked, unwilling to let her go.

She lifted up floury hands. “Can you make me another cup?”

“Sure.” He reluctantly pulled away and moved to the coffee machine. Not finding any cups in the cupboard, he opened the dishwasher and grimaced at the full load. Removing two cups, he put on the dishwasher and handwashed the cups. While he waited for the beans to grind and the machine to dispense life-juice, he looked at Poppy, who’d resumed sieving flour.

He wasn’t much of a cook, but he knew enough to realize that baking was about being precise, and if a lot of the product was out of the bowl and not in it, it would probably affect the result. He debated whether he should point that out and decided not to. She was having fun, and he was having fun watching her.

“Are you following a recipe, Popsicle?”

“Pfft.” Poppy dug her hands into the bowl to mix the flour and butter. “I made so many pies with Grandma M., I could do this in my sleep.”

He remembered those baking sessions, and Poppy often had her nose in a book while Grandma M. baked, and only paid attention when she was offered a bowl to lick or a bite to taste. Question: how was he going to get out of tasting her pies?

He looked at Felony and saw that his dog was watching him with what looked like an expression of terror on his face. He might love Poppy much more than he did him now, but he wasn’t keen to sample her baking either.

Felony released a long, mournful howl, and Poppy immediately dropped what she was doing to sink to her haunches in front of her. Realizing that her hands were covered in batter, she tried to use her elbow to rub his head. “What’s the matter, darling?” she crooned.