Page 6 of Fake It ’Til You Mate It

Lara, a pretty witch with bouncy blonde curls, might’ve snickered to hear the fox shifter’s unexpected confession, but that was before she finished taking a bite out of her own cupcake.

One bite. That’s all it took. One bite and her soft green eyes go slightly glass as she says conversationally, “I cursed the printer in my boss’s office. Whenever he wants to waste paper on another ridiculous memo, it jams and then—” She blinks suddenly, looking down at the cupcake she just took a bite out of. “Hang on. What kind of cupcakes are these, Honey? One of your grandmother’s recipes?”

Uh-oh.

Can’t Resist Cupcakes. I just… I thought it meant that my customers ‘can’t resist’ enjoying their flavor.

Um. No. That’s not it.

Not at all.

They can’t resist blurting out their secrets.

Truth bombs. Holy shit, Honey. You just served truth bombs to your customers.

I hope I’m wrong. I hope she’s wrong. But when the amber-eyed wolf shifter I pointedly pretended not to notice prowling around the bakery starts saying something about the Alpha and my heart drops, it doesn’t matter. I shut down when it comes to anything to do with that male. Max Lobo, that is, and not the dark-haired wolf who is popping the second half of the cupcake into his mouth.

No!

Mrs. Carlson reaches to grab one from the sample tray on her way out of the bakery.

I point, then hiss under my breath, “Gus. Go!”

The wily opossum immediately leaps to the floor, his long tail trailing behind him as he heads for the sample tray. He’s quick. In no time, he’s spiraled up the stand, hooking his teensy claws on the edge of the table, and leaping onto the tray.

Gus buries his face in the nearest cupcake. That’s okay. I’m not worried about him spilling his guts, even if I’m more concerned about him adding to his pudgy belly by feeding him all that sugar.

Ah, well. It can’t be helped.

His snout is in one cupcake. His right paw is covered in frosting from another. Even his tail dips past the frosting of a third, digging into the cake. When he pulls it out, it’ll be covered in lemon filling, but at least the Can’t Resist Cupcakes won’t be messing with my neighbors any longer.

Thank you, Gus.

Mrs. Carlson draws her hand back. From one supe to another, she’ll never judge me for keeping an opossum in here, but that doesn’t mean she’s still interested in a cupcake.

Phew.

Racing around the counter, I pull a stern expression to my face, wagging my finger at Gus. “Bad Gus. Those were for our friends.”

Gus doesn’t understand English. Not really. He’s an opossum after all, and I’ve had three different witches verify that he’s not a shifter in disguise. But while I can understand the gist of what he means, same goes for me—though, if I’m being fair, Gus is way better at understanding me than I am him.

Which is why he doesn’t seem upset that I’m scolding him. Or maybe that’s just Gus being Gus because he gives me a mischievous look before darting his tongue out, licking the frosting from his whiskers…

Either way, I use the distraction to grab the tray. Hurrying behind the counter, I drop the plate of cupcakes into the trash before any of my customers can get caught in the spell and confess some of their deepest darkest secrets to me.

And then I grin.

“Who wants to try one of the eclairs I was just about to fill instead?”

I hoped that the snafu from this morning went unnoticed. That my customers were grateful for a fresh batch of eclairs on the house, and that they went on their merry ways, not realizing that they blabbed about more than they would’ve ever wanted to.

If only.

The bakery slows down in the early afternoon. There’s always a small rush near close when customers come in for the last of the daily bread for their dinners, but in the three-hour gap between lunchtime and when I get ready to close for the evening, it’s usually slow enough for me to start some of the bakes for tomorrow morning.

I tried to pretend like it was a good thing today, and not like rumors from the morning rush meant that Moonburrow locals were avoiding my shop. Optimistic… that’s me. And if I’m nervous-baking some cinnamon sandies while I work to keep from peeking out into the street… well, at least I’ll have something delicious to snack on after I slink back upstairs with Gus.

I’m just measuring out the flour when the other shoe drops.