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I watch her leave.

Then I stare at the open doorway for a full thirty seconds like a fucking idiot.

Two hours later, I’m standing in the kitchen of The Witching Hour with half my arm buried inside a commercial oven.

Autumn appears beside me carrying a tray of cinnamon rolls.

“I distinctly remember telling you I didn’t need help.”

“Good thing I don’t listen.”

“That explains a lot.”

“Hand me the screwdriver.”

She looks at the tools scattered across the counter.

“Which one?”

“The Phillips.”

She picks up a flathead.

I close my eyes.

“Sweetheart.”

“What?”

“That’s a flathead.”

“Well, excuse me for not attending screwdriver university.”

I hold out my hand.

She slaps the correct tool into my palm.

“Bossy.”

“Competent.”

“Arrogant.”

“Also true.”

She laughs and returns to her baking.

The bakery smells like cinnamon, brown sugar, and pumpkin. Little paper ghosts hang from the ceiling, orange lights frame the windows, and a chalkboard behind the counter advertises something called a Witch, Please Latte.

I don’t know what the hell that is.

I suspect it costs eight dollars.

“What’s in that thing?” I ask, nodding toward the chalkboard.

“Espresso, pumpkin, cinnamon, maple, and a little magic.”

“Sounds like diabetes.”