Page 3 of Fake It ’Til You Mate It

I like this one. It comes with treats.

— gus

Cupcakes saved my life—or, at the very least, gave me a new one.

Grabbing the jar of sprinkles, pinching a few between my fingers and letting them settle on the pink frosting, I think about how ridiculous that sounds. It’s true. Discovering that I have a knack for baking—bread, pies, pastries, but cupcakes in particular—was the second biggest shock I received after I relocated from Glenville to Moonburrow.

Should I have been surprised? Probably not. Grandma Jean is a full-blooded witch, but that’s just what kind of supe she is. My whole life, she’s been a baker, and while I hadn’t seen her in person since I left home the first time, that’s how I remember her: the scent of sugar and magic following in her wake as me and Ash scampered behind that, begging her for a treat.

My cousin was related to me on my dad’s side, but Grandma Jean didn’t care. She fed her little ‘possums, and my biggest regret after I moved to Glenville was that I only got goodies sent to me through the mail instead of fresh out of her oven.

Did I have any idea that I could make treats of my own? Considering I was a whizz at nuking up some dinners or boiling a pot of water for pasta and that was basically it, not even a little. That all changed when the fallout from being toe-tagged, then rising from the dead… again… meant that the Glenville Police had more than a few questions for me.

I’m not the biggest fan of the police, human or supe. I never have been, and I was willing to do anything to stay off their radar.

Too bad that Mom got the initial call. She already sent over the forged documentation about my narcolepsy, but the cops came by for a nice chat anyway. By the time I finally had them off my back, I agreed with my parents: I needed to be around my own kind. They meant opossums. I just meant supes.

And that’s why, instead of returning to Virginia, I needed a backup plan.

I needed my grandmother.

Supes are long-lived. Vamps are basically immortal, while witches can last up to three centuries before they slow down; shifters get about half that. I don’t know how old Grandma Jean is exactly. I do know, however, that Grandpa Gary shifted to an opossum one last time before I was born, then fell asleep. He reached the end, and while you wouldn’t look at Grandma Jean and think her a day over sixty, Mom told me she was getting ready to move on.

Me being, well, me, I freaked. I thought she was dying. Silly Honey. Grandma Jean simply decided to do a tour of Europe, visiting old friends from the coven where she spent her formative years in France before moving to the United States and falling for my grandfather. Mom thought that was good for her, but that left the question: what would happen to Grandma Jean’s bakery?

She opened Dough You Believe in Magic a few years ago. It’s not her first bakery. When I was growing up, she owned a fancy patisserie in Northern Virginia. After I left home, so did she, settling in a small supernatural town where her patrons were happy to eat some of her charmed pastries as long as she stayed away from black magic and curses.

I’m impulsive. Always have been, and I doubt that’s going to change now. I offered to take the bakery—and the cozy apartment built on top of it—off of Grandma Jean’s hands. Sure, I’d have to move to Moonburrow, but with that being only a couple of hours away from Mom and Dad, they begrudgingly agreed it was a good idea.

Not that it mattered. Grandma Jean loved the idea, and if Grandma Jean approved, not even Mom would argue with the matriarch of our immediate clan.

That’s how, two months ago, I was given the keys to the bakery and the apartment, Grandma Jean’s leather-bound book of recipes, and her blessing to do my best to take over Dough You Believe in Magic.

And it’s been great.

For the most part, I’ve loved living in Moonburrow, Maryland. A shifter-run town, there’s enough of a coven presence to charm it against humans. It’s not on any map. Drivers coming this way inevitably find that there’s a detour to take around it. You can’t even get past the borders unless you have supe blood, but since it’s also the home to the Moonshadow Pack, that means vampires are out. The long-standing Claws and Fangs war—between the predatory wolf shifters and their natural enemy, the fanged corpses—might be in a lull right now, but so long as we rely on the Alpha-led pack to protect the rest of us, Moonburrow keeps humans and vampires out.

If only it kept out sticky-fingered raccoons…

The front door to the bakery is kept locked until I open up for business at exactly eight o’clock. It’s only seven-thirty now, but there’s no denying I’ve been joined by Roxy Kane, who must have slunk in through the back door. How else can I explain her sudden appearance? Unlike me, she doesn’t have a drop of witch blood, but there she is, joining me behind the counter, her black hair—and its trademark white stripes—up in a messy bun, while wearing ripped leggings, a leather jacket over her latest graphic tee, all topped off with an intense pair of sunglasses she’s wearing indoors just because she’s that kind of raccoon.

Or maybe she’s doing something to hide the dark circles under her eyes that are part of what she is, same as how my purple eyes give me away to anyone who knows anything about opossum shifters…

Before it hits me that she’s really there, she’s reaching around me, her arm halfway into my pastry case.

“Morning.” She waves with the hand not full of a chocolate croissant as she straightens up. “I’m testing your wares again.” A large bite from the croissant and a hint of a smirk on her face as she chews before she says, “Still good.”

I swat at her with my nearest counter rag. “Roxy! You can’t just walk in and take pastries!”

“I didn’t just take them.” She bites into it again with obvious defiance. “I’m taste-testing. Big difference.”

Sensing mine, Gus chitters in annoyance from his flour-bag throne.

“Oh, look.” Roxy smirks. “It’s your emotional support rat.”

Gus shows the raccoon shifter his fangs.

She bares her teeth back at my baking partner because, yup, maturity is as dead as Gus will seem to be if she frightens him into appearing lifeless. She might be considered a prey shifter as a raccoon, but add her size and her attitude, and I wouldn’t blame Gus for thinking she’s a predator.