Page 205 of Knot Baked Out For This
"You're my FAVORITE BAKER!" he announces, then runs off to terrorize the pumpkin carving station.
"You're good with kids," Rowan observes, and something in his voice makes me look up.
He's watching me with that expression—the one that makes me feel seen and wanted and like maybe I'm not the disaster I've always thought I was.
"I like kids," I admit, standing and brushing ghost cookie crumbs from my dress. "When they're sugared up and returning to their parents."
"So our kids will be feral?"
"Our—what?"
But he's already walking away, smirking over his shoulder, and I'm left standing there processing the casual way he just said 'our kids' like it's inevitable instead of theoretical.
"He just implied future children!" I hiss at Luca, who's appeared beside me with a tray of cider.
"He's been implying that for weeks," Luca says mildly. "You're just now noticing?"
"I've been busy!"
"You've been oblivious!"
"Same thing!"
The festival continues, a blur of costumes and laughter and people stopping me every five seconds to congratulate me on "that thing in court" with varying degrees of detail about how they heard the story.
"I heard you punched him!" Mrs. Patterson says, eyes gleaming.
"I didn't punch anyone!"
"That's not what I heard!"
By the eighth retelling, I apparently delivered a roundhouse kick while declaring myself an independent woman, and the judge gave me a standing ovation. Small-town gossip is a beautiful, terrifying thing.
"Your legend grows," Levi says, appearing with Ember on a leash. She's wearing her golden cape and attracting a crowd of children who want to pet the "princess dog."
"I just want to sell cookies in peace!"
"Should've thought of that before becoming a folk hero!"
Muffin, Biscuit, and Whiskey are prowling the festival in their tiny capes, looking like the world's most judgmental witch familiars. Biscuit keeps trying to steal cookies from children's hands. Whiskey has claimed the highest pumpkin in the carving station as his throne. Muffin is accepting worship from her subjects with the grace of a cat who always knew she was royalty.
"This is surreal," I mutter, watching my cats terrorize the festival.
"This is perfect," Reverie corrects, appearing with her camera. "Say 'Hot Buns!'"
"I will not?—"
*CLICK*
"Got it! That's going on Instagram!"
As the sun sets, the fairy lights become more prominent, turning Maple Street into something from a storybook. The music shifts from upbeat pop to something slower, more nostalgic, and suddenly, the street is clearing for dancing.
"Oh no," I say immediately.
"Oh yes," Levi grins, pulling me into the makeshift dance floor before I can escape.
"I don't dance!"
