Fireworks & Frosting (Crescent Cove #8)

1. Lila

CHAPTER ONE

Lila

“Bollocking barnacles.”

I should have taken the giant crack running through the buttercream on my cake as a warning.

Instead, I groan and lean closer, inspecting the damage while mentally calculating how much time it will take to smooth the buttercream and pipe fresh decorations over the rift.

The Frosting Queen competition is only two weeks away, and I’ve spent far longer than that trying to up my game from cupcakes to an actual cake.

Not to mention the time testing recipes, making sugar flowers, and convincing myself that this summer will be different.

This summer there’s a tie-breaking judge.

Maxwell Lark.

The newcomer who’s somehow become the most talked about person in Crescent Cove despite living here for approximately twenty minutes.

Yesterday, the Frosting Queen committee announced the final judging panel. Most of the names didn’t surprise me. Mrs. Abernathy from the Bakery Guild has judged every year since before I was born. Mayor Wren never misses a competition. Neither does Neve, the editor of the Chronicles.

But nobody saw Max coming. And now he has a vote that will determine the next Frosting Queen.

A vote I fully intend to influence with this cake.

A yowl sounds from the other side of the kitchen, and I turn to find Mr. Biscuits launching himself onto the island with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.

“Before you judge me,” I tell him, “I need you to understand that my options are limited.”

The orange tabby’s tail twitches.

“I mean, I know how this looks. But this is what I’ve been reduced to. I’m a briber. A briberist? Someone who is about to commit grand bribery.”

Mr. Biscuits lifts a paw, spreads his toes wide, and starts cleaning, completely unfazed by my moral dilemma.

“But it’s going to work,” I continue. “It has to work.”

Winning Frosting Queen means proving that being one of the few fully humans born and raised in Crescent Cove doesn’t automatically put me at the bottom of the pack. More importantly it means winning prize money. Money means choices, opportunities. A way out of this town.

I rotate the cake so the crack faces my flour sack shaped cat.

“It doesn’t look that bad, does it?”

Mr. Biscuits studies the cake for a moment, sneezes, then flops his orange ass onto the countertop to aggressively lick his crotch.

“Your faith in me is inspiring.”

Chewing my lower lip, I grab my phone and type “cracked buttercream help” into the search bar. Hundreds of videos appear instantly. I tap on the first one and prop my phone against a bowl of lemons.

“A witch could fix this with a flick of her wrist,” I mutter, skipping the ad.

The woman in the video smooths an entire cake tier in roughly six seconds. I’m not convinced she’s entirely human. Then again, neither is most of Crescent Cove.

An octopus shifter owns the spa.

A potion making witch owns the diner.

The marine rescue team has a sea lion shifter.

The mayor’s grandmother is rumored to be part siren, which explains both her singing voice and her ability to get people to volunteer for things they absolutely do not want to do.

Meanwhile, I’m just…me.

No magick or latent supernatural abilities waiting to awaken. No mysterious family history or trust fund that makes me the secret owner of the Boardwalk. I’m simply a mere mortal armed with an offset spatula and intimidating baking tutorials.

I follow the video’s instructions, my toes pressing against the tile as I carefully drag the spatula across the side of the cake. Slowly, the gap disappears beneath a fresh coat of lavender frosting.

“Ha,” I tell the cake. “Take that.”

A disgusting gagging sound erupts, and I yelp. My entire body jerks, the spatula catching on the edge of the second tier, peeling away a massive chunk of buttercream. The crack has turned into a full-blown crater.

I glare at Mr. Biscuits.

He swishes his tail, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Are you kidding me?”

Another puking noise rattles out of him.

“Oh, no. Absolutely not. You’re not yaking up a hairball on the counter.”

I lunge for him, and he dodges, launching himself across the island where he circles twice and curls up in a patch of sunlight out of arm’s reach. Within seconds, he’s sound asleep snore purring.

“You little—”

Movement catches my attention, and I glance down at the cake.

A glob of lavender buttercream slides down the side before plopping onto my hand.

With a grumble, I lick away part of the frosting before turning toward the sink to rinse the rest of the sugary mess from my fingers.

That’s when I see her. The Wicked Witch herself. Candi Honeycutt.

Actually, Wicked Witch is unfair. Most witches are lovely. But Candi once glamoured an entire batch of my macarons baby poop green during the Summer Bake Sale because I parked in her favorite spot.

Long dark hair tumbles over her shoulders in glossy waves that remain perfect despite the coastal humidity. Perched on top of her head is last year’s Frosting Queen tiara, the rhinestones glittering in the morning sunlight.

My eye twitches, and I don’t notice the tap water has become the temperature of molten lava until it splashes over my fingers.

“Son of a sea cucumber!”

I snatch my hand away from the stream, turn off the water, and go back to glaring through the window at the rival I’ve had since first grade.

A pale pink sundress swishes around her ankles as she walks, the fabric printed with tiny seashells and trimmed with white lace.

Oversized white earrings bounce against her cheeks, and a pair of cat-eye sunglasses perch on her nose as she strides purposefully down the sidewalk carrying a gift basket that looks expensive enough to require its own insurance policy.

She pauses at the corner to adjust the toddler-sized bundle.

Cellophane catches the sunlight and sparkles like a disco ball.

Layers of pale pink ribbon cascade down the sides while individually wrapped treats peek out from between neatly packaged cookies and brightly colored sugary confections.

A mason jar filled with her award-winning strawberry jam sits in the center.

A bouquet of fresh flowers tied with last year’s Frosting Queen sash spills from one corner.

The basket is ridiculous.

The decorations are ridiculous.

Using her Frosting Queen sash as bouquet holder is especially ridiculous.

And the giant fox stuffed animal sticking out of the top—

My stomach drops, and I suck in a breath. “Oh, she isn’t.”

Candi continues walking, and I follow the direction she’s heading.

My pulse kicks up. “She wouldn’t.”

She continues down the sidewalk, pausing to check the nonexistent traffic on our sleepy street and crosses the road to continue in front of my house.

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 swirls her 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.”