No magick or latent supernatural abilities waiting to awaken. No mysterious family history or trust fund that makes me the secret owner of the Boardwalk. I’m simply a mere mortal armed with an offset spatula and intimidating baking tutorials.
I follow the video’s instructions, my toes pressing against the tile as I carefully drag the spatula across the side of the cake. Slowly, the gap disappears beneath a fresh coat of lavender frosting.
“Ha,” I tell the cake. “Take that.”
A disgusting gagging sound erupts, and I yelp. My entire body jerks, the spatula catching on the edge of the second tier, peeling away a massive chunk of buttercream. The crack has turned into a full-blown crater.
I glare at Mr. Biscuits.
He swishes his tail, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Are you kidding me?”
Another puking noise rattles out of him.
“Oh, no. Absolutely not. You’re not yaking up a hairball on the counter.”
I lunge for him, and he dodges, launching himself across the island where he circles twice and curls up in a patch of sunlight out of arm’s reach. Within seconds, he’s sound asleep snore purring.
“You little?—”
Movement catches my attention, and I glance down at the cake.
A glob of lavender buttercream slides down the side before plopping onto my hand.
With a grumble, I lick away part of the frosting before turning toward the sink to rinse the rest of the sugary mess from my fingers.
That’s when I see her. The Wicked Witch herself. Candi Honeycutt.
Actually, Wicked Witch is unfair. Most witches are lovely. But Candi once glamoured an entire batch of my macarons baby poop green during the Summer Bake Sale because I parked in her favorite spot.
Long dark hair tumbles over her shoulders in glossy waves that remain perfect despite the coastal humidity. Perched on top of her head is last year’s Frosting Queen tiara, the rhinestones glittering in the morning sunlight.
My eye twitches, and I don’t notice the tap water has become the temperature of molten lava until it splashes over my fingers.
“Son of a sea cucumber!”
I snatch my hand away from the stream, turn off the water, and go back to glaring through the window at the rival I’ve had since first grade.
A pale pink sundress swishes around her ankles as she walks, the fabric printed with tiny seashells and trimmed with white lace. Oversized white earrings bounce against her cheeks, and a pair of cat-eye sunglasses perch on her nose as she strides purposefully down the sidewalk carrying a gift basket that looks expensive enough to require its own insurance policy.
She pauses at the corner to adjust the toddler-sized bundle. Cellophane catches the sunlight and sparkles like a disco ball. Layers of pale pink ribbon cascade down the sides whileindividually wrapped treats peek out from between neatly packaged cookies and brightly colored sugary confections. A mason jar filled with her award-winning strawberry jam sits in the center. A bouquet of fresh flowers tied with last year’s Frosting Queen sash spills from one corner.
The basket is ridiculous.
The decorations are ridiculous.
Using her Frosting Queen sash as bouquet holder is especially ridiculous.
And the giant fox stuffed animal sticking out of the top?—
My stomach drops, and I suck in a breath. “Oh,she isn’t.”
Candi continues walking, and I follow the direction she’s heading.
My pulse kicks up. “She wouldn’t.”
She continues down the sidewalk, pausing to check the nonexistent traffic on our sleepy street and crosses the road to continue in front of my house.
