Page 13 of Fake It ’Til You Mate It

I pat his head. “Alright, buddy. Let’s go upstairs. We have an early morning tomorrow.”

Hell, I run my own bakery. I have an early morning every morning—except for Mondays ‘cause we’re off, but still. If there’s something skulking around the back alley behind the bakery, it can wait until tomorrow.

Who knows? It’s probably just Roxy, smirking as she realized that I went to a local hardware shop and convinced the shy if knowledgeable mole shifter owner to teach me how to change the lock on my back door before she can break in to the bakery again.

I smile to myself as I scratch Gus under his chin, flicking off the main lights to the bakery.

That trip took almost an hour before dinner yesterday, plus the twenty bucks it cost for the supplies. When I see the look on Roxy’s face the next time she tries to pilfer some pastries, it’ll be worth it.

Hey. She grew up, but so did I. And while we might be friends-ish these days, I’m not the pushover I used to be⁠—

Gus makes a mild clicking sound.

I cock my head. “Mm? What’s that?”

The clicks become an insistent chittering.

“Okay. If you want eggs for dinner, you can have eggs.”

He rubs the edge of his bare, scaly, pink opossum tail against my throat, Gus’s version of a thanks.

Okay. I’m not a pushover to anyone except Gus, that is.

That’s okay. He’s worth it.

And even if he wasn’t, from the moment he imprinted on me as a young opossum seeing me while I was in my fur, he’s been my loyal sidekick, my best buddy, and the only roommate I’ve had and… wow.

Maybe I do need to get out more.

Prey circle, huh? Well. Maybe I should never say never.

It’s five o’clock in the morning when Gus and I head downstairs to start our day.

Ah. The life of a baker.

Opossums in the wild are nocturnal. They also have a lifespan of about two years or so; four in captivity. Most of my witchy side is only really good for following Grandma Jean’s recipes. I can’t cast any spells, not even simple ones like my mom can. Still, maybe there’s something magical about me since I’ve already had Gus as my sidekick for eight years and he shows no sign of slowing down. Plus, he keeps to my hours, and if that’s not magical, I don’t know what is.

I found him hiding behind a trash can when I was working in a coffee shop back in Glenville. He’d been much smaller than—he’s about the size of a house cat now—and all alone. He hissed at me, but when I quickly shucked off my clothes, shifting to my fur, the abandoned opossum immediately latched onto me.

And I mean that literally. Gus didn’t crawl into my pouch… and, no, it’s not weird that I have a pouch when I’m my opossum since I am a marsupial, after all… but he did scurry up on my back, holding on tightly.

From then on, it’s been the two of us. Honey and Gus, and he doesn’t mind that I spend most of my time in my skin. The big human feeds him, brushes him, and makes sure he doesn’t get the stray tick on him… of course we’re buddies.

He’s riding my shoulder now. As soon as we reach the bottom of the steps and I push open the door that separates the kitchen from the stairs that lead up to the apartment built over the shop, he digs his teensy claws through my oversized pink sweater, finding enough skin that I yip.

“Gus? What’s the matter?”

He curls his tail around the back of my neck, burying his face in the side.

I pat his flank. “I know. It’s early. Why don’t you get comfy while I get to work?”

I move us from the kitchen to the store space, resting my hand on the back counter. Gus meanders his way down my arm, plopping on the counter, whiskers twitching. His corner has a brown basket with a fuzzy tan blanket in it. He’s slept in it maybe twice in the last two months, preferring the ten-pound bag of flour that I’d knocked onto its side once before Gus claimed it as his throne.

Mimicking me when I knead dough, he’s done the opossum version of cat biscuits, making the hard sack comfortable without tearing open the thick paper on the bag. Gus sniffs the flour, declares it acceptable, and curls up on top of it.

I playfully tweak one of his pink ears, then get started on my morning prep.

There’s so much to do and, after rolling up my sleeves, I get down to it. Proofing dough, getting batter ready, checking on the puff pastry that chilled overnight… I’m working as the sun comes up, streaking in through the large bakery windows. Despite so many shifters in Moonburrow, this part of the town is definitely diurnal. If I thought I could get away with having a nighttime bakery, I would’ve changed the hours, but since Grandma Jean was used to human hours—and so was I after spending so long in Glenville—I kept them the same.