A shy high school senior jock and a closed-off girl battling an immune disorder fake a relationship to win a social media contest.
Being shy isn't easy, especially when you're the new kid at school. Scotts Valley's football program is subpar compare...
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"Thank you." I smiled and handed Mrs. Evans a pink cardboard box, pointing our white cupcake logo at her. "Happy Birthday, Carson."
"It's tomorrow," he said in a bored tone.
"Thank you, Paige." Mrs. Evans palmed the V-neck of her scrubs, appreciation warming her eyes. "This was so convenient. Let's get these home and into the fridge, bud."
My heart warmed at the excitement in Carson's eyes. Black cocoa cupcakes weren't ordered often by kids, more of a Halloween specialty, but exceptions like Carson were why they remained a custom possibility. "Thank you." I smiled as she dropped her coins into our tip jar and exited the bakery.
"That was nice of you, Paigey."
Mom's hand squeezed my elbow, the itch making me squirm. "Every seven-year-old should have cupcakes for their birthday." Even diabetic ones. "I piped some birthday messages around the creepy tarantulas he's into, and he'll get a surprise because I stuck some cherry glaze inside."
Mrs. Evans might not appreciate that addition, and neither did Mom based on her frown since the glaze would ooze out like blood. But it looked sick against the black cupcakes.
"True. Back to work. Always something to do, and I have a fresh set of fair booth recipe ideas bubbling." Though not classically trained, only what Grandma taught her, Mom's creativity was off the charts, and nothing could convince her not to try. With a reach down, she banged around two silver steel bowls.
I rolled my eyes. She specialized in making gluten-free, Celiac-friendly ingredients not taste like cardboard, but her last infusion recipes were all misses. Lemongrass and sweet tea? Gross. "Can't you stick with apple spice muffins and salted caramel?"
"We shouldn't sell the same items two years in a row, Paigey." Dad tapped away on his paper-printing calculator in the back office. He must've taken a break from de facto repairman duty on the second over to manage the books and next week's supply orders.
"Caramel macchiato, though? That we could try!" Mom went to the coffee station.
Why couldn't we sell the same items? We sold Margie's best-sellers during football games to give a grounding reference. But what did I know about running a—
"Why do I always have to wash the night dishes?" Morgan whined, tying a black apron around her tiny waist.
"Because the water and soap dry out Paige's skin," Mom said between a clatter of kitchen sounds. She dumped a stack of trays into the sink with a crash and turned on the faucet.
Morgan scowled at me. "Her skin is always dried out."
So bratty. What happened to my young, sweet shadow? Vanished, I swear. "If you'd rather restock the fridge and freezer, Morgan—"
"No." She stuck out her tongue.
"You say that like I don't do anything." I pulled out the mop and bucket from next to the sink. Between tonight's sparse orders, because who came to a bakery for dinner, I wiped down the three front lobby tables and the twelve chairs, cleaned the horrendous state of the only bathroom, and restocked the coffee area for tomorrow's breakfast shift. All tasks I could do with elbow-length rubber gloves, which technically I could use for the dishes, but messing with Morgan was too much fun.
