CHAPTER ONE
Lila
“Bollocking barnacles.”
I should have taken the giant crack running through the buttercream on my cake as a warning.
Instead, I groan and lean closer, inspecting the damage while mentally calculating how much time it will take to smooth the buttercream and pipe fresh decorations over the rift. The Frosting Queen competition is only two weeks away, and I’ve spent far longer than that trying to up my game from cupcakes to an actual cake. Not to mention the time testing recipes, making sugar flowers, and convincing myself that this summer will be different.
This summer there’s a tie-breaking judge.
Maxwell Lark.
The newcomer who’s somehow become the most talked about person in Crescent Cove despite living here for approximately twenty minutes.
Yesterday, the Frosting Queen committee announced the final judging panel. Most of the names didn’t surprise me. Mrs. Abernathy from the Bakery Guild has judged every year since before I was born. Mayor Wren never misses a competition. Neither does Neve, the editor of the Chronicles.
But nobody saw Max coming. And now he has a vote that will determine the next Frosting Queen.
A vote I fully intend to influence with this cake.
A yowl sounds from the other side of the kitchen, and I turn to find Mr. Biscuits launching himself onto the island with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.
“Before you judge me,” I tell him, “I need you to understand that my options are limited.”
The orange tabby’s tail twitches.
“I mean, I know how this looks. But this is what I’ve been reduced to. I’m a briber. A briberist? Someone who is about to commit grand bribery.”
Mr. Biscuits lifts a paw, spreads his toes wide, and starts cleaning, completely unfazed by my moral dilemma.
“But it’s going to work,” I continue. “It has to work.”
Winning Frosting Queen means proving that being one of the few fully humans born and raised in Crescent Cove doesn’t automatically put me at the bottom of the pack. More importantly it means winning prize money. Money means choices, opportunities. A way out of this town.
I rotate the cake so the crack faces my flour sack shaped cat.
“It doesn’t look that bad, does it?”
Mr. Biscuits studies the cake for a moment, sneezes, then flops his orange ass onto the countertop to aggressively lick his crotch.
“Your faith in me is inspiring.”
Chewing my lower lip, I grab my phone and type “cracked buttercream help” into the search bar. Hundreds of videos appear instantly. I tap on the first one and prop my phone against a bowl of lemons.
“A witch could fix this with a flick of her wrist,” I mutter, skipping the ad.
The woman in the video smooths an entire cake tier in roughly six seconds. I’m not convinced she’s entirely human. Then again, neither is most of Crescent Cove.
An octopus shifter owns the spa.
A potion making witch owns the diner.
The marine rescue team has a sea lion shifter.
The mayor’s grandmother is rumored to be part siren, which explains both her singing voice and her ability to get people to volunteer for things they absolutely do not want to do.
Meanwhile, I’m just…me.
