Page 12 of Fake It ’Til You Mate It

It’s supposed to be a peace offering, the only way I know how to make one these days. I managed to apologize to my customers yesterday by offering them free eclairs before shooing them out my door, but I was so flustered the entire time Sheriff Lobo was in the bakery, I didn’t offer him a single pastry as an apology for involving him in my boo-boo.

It hit me this morning that I didn’t. Before I knew better, I whipped up a charm-free cupcake with apples and caramel because… I don’t know… he just seemed like that kind of male. If he didn’t want it, he didn’t have to eat it, but I’d be lying if I said that I… I didn’t want him to.

And that, right there, is a big fucking problem.

In shifter culture, food has meaning. If you feed someone unmated that you could potentially be attracted to, it’s not just a meal. It’s telling them that you are a provider, that they’ll never go hungry or want for anything if you’re around. If I was a predator, giving the sheriff a cupcake now would be like I was trying to feed him.

I’d be giving him a sign that I was into him as a mate.

Now, I’ve only been in Moonburrow for two months, but I’ve dealt with my fair share of predators. He’s the Alpha. He’d never want a prey shifter for a mate, and, yeah, that’s what I am. A prey shifter feeding a predator is kind of just doing their job, showing respect, so I’m not too worried about Sheriff Lobo getting the wrong idea.

I’m the baker, after all. Giving away treats is what I do.

When it comes to the sheriff, it’s all I can do.

I can’t have him. Mixed shifter matings—predator and prey—only work when they trust each other enough to form and finalize a mate bond. How? Predators either want to protect or pounce while prey just want to submit or flee. It’ll never work, and I have no clue what Fate is thinking, telling me that I’m meant for the sheriff… even if the handful of minutes I spent in close proximity with him last night only reaffirmed what I suspected the first time I picked up his scent.

I’m supposed to be his mate, and since that’s not going to happen, the least I can do is apologize with a cupcake.

“Yeah,” I tell Declan. “I’m sure.”

CHAPTER 4

PEPPERMINT

Dead predator on our territory.

Mother dies again, rather theatrically.

Amateur.

— gus

After a long day on my feet, I’m exhausted and ready to go upstairs to relax for the evening.

It’s almost time. We’re… or, really, I since Gus is curled up around a cake stand on the counter, snuffling as he sleeps… prepped for tomorrow morning. The leftover goods that haven’t been sold have been bagged up and set aside for drop-off at the Moonburrow food bank for donation; considering how much shifters eat—especially the predators—there’s always someone in need, even in a shifter town that relies on pack and community more than humans do in their suburbs and cities. It’s my way to help, and if it’s not something I can repurpose or sell as day-old, it goes to supes who will happily gobble up my treats. The day’s receipts have been reconciled, too, the deposit tucked in the safe. I’ll drop the money off, plus the donation during my mid-morning break tomorrow before heading back to prep for the lunch rush.

But that’s all tomorrow. Tonight? I’m going to take a shower, throw on some comfy PJs, pick a movie to watch, and zone out with the frozen pizza that’s been calling my name for the last hour or so.

Sounds like a plan. I just need to grab Gus and⁠—

Gus.

Where’s Gus?

Two seconds ago, he was zonked-out, his reflection in the cake stand leaving two slumbering opossums on the countertop. Now? There isn’t a single one. No large opossum with his coarse whitish-grey fur and adorable ears. Not on the flour bag he claimed my first morning in the bakery, or searching determinedly for any few stray crumbs he won’t be able to find in the freshly cleaned display case.

“Gus?” I call out. “Where are you, bud?”

Over the slight hum from the lights, I hear a familiar sound coming from the back. It’s mainly the kitchen with my industrial mixers, multiple ovens, and cooling racks, but at the end of the space, there’s an exit that leads out into the back alley where we have our dumpster.

That’s where I find him. Standing in front of the door, his hackles raised and his tail lashing, Gus hisses at it.

“What’s wrong?”

His beady eyes focus on the back door for a split second longer before he turns toward me as though he can’t help himself. After closing the gap between us with his adorable little shuffle, Gus climbs up my leg, my side, my shoulder. He settles there, wrapping his prehensile tail around my throat.

I wait for him to make some kind of sound that might help me understand what upset him, but all he does is nuzzle close to my skin.