The realization hits me like a beach umbrella in a windstorm.
Max Lark moved into the rustic cottage at the end of our block.
The new man in town who’s vote will determine the next Frosting Queen.
The man attached to my best chance at winning the prize money and proving that being a regular human in a town overflowing with magickal creatures doesn’t make me less worthy of standing on that stage.
Max Lark also happens to be a fox shifter.
Suddenly the crack in my buttercream feels like the least of my problems.
Outside, Candi comes to a stop directly in front of my house.
The woman has the audacity to check her reflection in my mailbox’s shiny blue paint. Then she lifts one hand and swirlsher finger in the air. A faint shimmer of pink magick dances from her fingertip.
I watch in horror as her dark hair becomes even glossier, her pale skin takes on a sun-kissed glow, and her lips deepen into a perfect rosy red.
And—
“Did she just make her boobs bigger?”
Candi’s gaze lifts to my kitchen window, her hazel eyes landing on me. A smug smile curves her lips. Then she gives me a tiny wave before adjusting the Frosting Queen tiara.
My eye resumes twitching.
“That conniving little barnacle.”
I snatch a sunshine-yellow dish towel embroidered with pink cat toe beans from the oven handle and dry my hands.
“She’s won Frosting Queen every year since we were nineteen. It’s time for someone else to wear the crown.”
CHAPTER TWO
Max
Apile of boxes has been sitting in the middle of my new living room for nine days.
Not that I’m counting.
The cardboard flaps remain firmly taped closed while I remain firmly planted on the lumpy pill-bottle-orange couch that came with this pre-furnished rental. The thing sags in the middle and smells like sunscreen no matter how many times I open the windows and let the place air out, but it’s comfortable enough.
People unpack after a move.
The unsolicited comment comes from the same place all shifters hear their animal—the quiet corner of my mind that’s equal parts instinct, intuition, and pain in my ass.
I drag a hand through my hair and stare harder at the nearest box as if my glare alone might frighten it into unpacking itself.
“I’ll get to it.” The words sound weak even to me.
Said that last week.
“I’ve been busy.”
Busy avoiding.
A muscle in my jaw jumps. He’s right, but I’ll never tell him that.
The cottage is quiet except for the rhythmic creak of the ceiling fan overhead. Sunlight spills through the front windows, catching dust motes that drift through the air. From here, I can’t see the ocean, but if I listen hard enough, I catch the distant crash of waves and the call of seabirds riding the breeze. It’s the kind of peacefulness that could lull a person into a false sense of security.
