“Say whatever you want, but a king is a king and I’ll wear my crown with pride.”

Oh god.

The pleased smugness in his eyes confuses me. I don’t know if it makes him look hotter or makes me want to slap him.

Both.

Definitely both.

“I’m not doing this with you tonight.” I grab the box of Milky Ways to be helpful, but also to snatch one when he isn’t looking. “Do you have a big bowl we can dump these in?”

“No,” he says behind me. “But I do have this.”

I turn to see what he’s talking about and he’s pulling a fucking cauldron out of a giant dark red Target bag.

“You did not.” I feel like my jaw is about to hit the floor. Every time I think he can’t go any further with this Halloween surprise, he pulls something else out and shocks me again. “Why would you buy that? Don’t you have a mixing bowl or something?”

“I don’t cook much and I’ve never baked in my life, so I’m not sure.” He walks toward me with the cauldron that covers his entire midsection. “Plus, the king of Halloween had to be prepared.”

I brought this on myself. I had to open my big mouth.

“It’s pretty dope, though,” he says as he drops it in his entryway. “I think I’m gonna bring it to the locker room. Fill it with protein bars or something.”

“That’s weird, but also nice.” I tear open the box of Milky Ways and dump them into the cauldron. “I’m sure everyone will appreciate that.”

He shrugs off my compliment. Something he does often. Even with his foundation, he always deflects praise and directs it toward the charities he’s giving to. As a human, it’s endearing. As a publicist, it’s infuriating.

His doorbell goes off before I can point it out, though.

Quinton’s eyes widen and an almost childlike smile lights his face. “They’re here!” he whisper-shouts to me before swinging open the door and presenting the cauldron that still needs to be filled. “Happy Halloween!” he says, greeting the trick-or-treater.

The sun is still out and it’s pretty early for trick-or-treaters, which is probably why the mom clasping the hand of her toddler outside Quinton’s door is here. If I ever have kids, I’ll want to hit the houses before the mad rush of sugar-hungry children starts busting down doors too.

“What do you say?” she asks her toddler, who is painfully cute dressed up as a dinosaur. The headpiece is falling over his face and he yanks his hand out of his mom’s grasp to lift it out of his eyes.

“Twick-o-tweat!” he yells, raising his pumpkin candy basket in the air.