“Oh, you wish. I might be grateful, but that doesn’t mean I won’t still kick your ass in pumpkin carving.”

Just because he’s the only professional athlete here doesn’t mean he’s the only competitive one. Once, Mrs. Rafter took me with her to her church group to decorate Christmas cookies. I turned it into a competition that I’m pretty sure nobody else participated in. My cookies kicked their asses. My sprinkle work was just—*chef’s kiss*—so good. If I didn’t take it easy on a bunch of old Catholic ladies, there’s not a chance I’m easing up on this able-bodied male specimen.

And I don’t.

“This is bullshit.” He pouts as he looks at his pumpkin that is basically just a giant hole in the front because he wouldn’t listen to me when I was telling him where to cut. “This is your fault, you sabotaged me. Look at yours next to mine.”

I try not to laugh, I really do. But when I look at my beautiful pumpkin with a perfect witch carved into the front next to his . . . circle . . . I can’t help it.

“If you would’ve listened to me, it would’ve been fine,” I say once I’ve finished laughing. “Now grab it, we have to put it on your porch and turn on your light so trick-or-treaters know they’re welcome here. Wait.” I stop and turn to look at him. I forgot my candy at my place and Quinton better not be the jerk who gives out apples or protein bars. “Do you have candy?”

“Psssh. Do I have candy?” He walks past me with his sad pumpkin in his arms and a cocky smile on his face.

I follow him outside, putting my pumpkin on the other side of the steps so they frame his door and snap a quick picture before going back inside after him.

“Is this candy good enough for you?” He’s standing next to his pantry door and when I make it next to him, I get my first look at what might be the entire candy section of Costco.

“Holy shit,” I whisper, taking it all in. “You’re like the fucking king of Halloween! Your house is so going to be the winner. A Mustangs player and an assortment of every full-size candy they could ask for!”

Dad and I were always generous with our handfuls, but there’s just something extra special about getting a giant candy bar in your trick-or-treat bag.

“Did you just call me a king?” Mischief lights his dark brown eyes and I regret my words almost immediately.

“The king of Halloween. Not the king of like . . . life or anything.” It’s not my best comeback, but his thoughtfulness mixed with an overabundance of sugar has knocked me off my game.