Fangs and Frenemies E-Book

Sierra Cross

• Herausgeber: Sierra Cross
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

A quirky genius bobcat shifter. 
A sassy ex-cheerleading vampire. 
A sweet—but slightly neurotic—witch. 
They fight crime.

Hazel Greenwood’s magical career and love life are finally looking up at twenty eight. Take that, shallow Beige Witch mom and sisters! And everyone else who made her feel like an outcast growing up, just because she inherited Gran's powerful Green Magic.

But when a mean girl from the past goes missing, Hazel’s thrown back into the whirlwind of small town drama, rekindled rivalries, and romantic sparks.

High school’s back, witches.

To clear each other's names, three supernatural frenemies must set aside ancient grudges and learn to trust each other.

Because in the cozy, sea-swept village of Blue Moon Bay, Oregon, everyone’s guarding a magical secret.

Will these three women, who usually can't stand each other, find love and friendship while cracking the mystery—or are they cursed to fail?

Dive into a world of magical intrigue, snarky humor, heartwarming friendship, and slow burn romance. Escape to Blue Moon Bay now!

Leseprobe

Copyright © 2023 by Sierra Cross and Enigmatic Books

All rights reserved.

Cover Design by Arcane Covers

Interior Formatting by Qamber Designs

To all unlikely galentines

Blue Moon Bay’s “antique,” cast-iron streetlamps were brand spanking new, but you’d never know it to look at the hideous things.

Our town’s latest bid to charm tourists, the lamps blazed with an eerie, orange glow that only stoked my anxiety as I sped past Ocean Street’s deserted bistros, yarn shops, and taffy stands at dawn.

Come hex or high water, I could not be late for work again.

Not today, when Grandma Sage was counting on me to bake a very special wedding cake — raspberry crémeux, three tiers of it, draped with glossy fondant — a cake that had to taste like heaven and literally look pretty enough to grace a magazine cover since our bride’s swanky reception would be featured in Oregon Coast Bride.

But the baking was … well, cake, compared with the other task Gran expected of me. Like her own grandmother before her, she imbued each wedding cake with a signature, magical marriage blessing. As her apprentice witch, it was my job to assist with the spell.

A tough spell that called for my deepest focus.

Bleary-eyed, I guzzled milky coffee from the to-go cup balanced between my knees. No doubt binging Netflix last night, cuddled up with my new boyfriend, was a bad life choice. But Bryson and I had only been dating since summer, and the feel of his strong arms wrapped around me melted my brain every time.

I was still daydreaming about Bryson’s soft, full lips when Trixie, my ancient VW Rabbit, hit a red light at the corner outside Java Kitty Café.

“Check them out, doll,” she exclaimed, speaking telepathically straight to me. “How come their parking lot’s full at six a.m. while I’m sittin’ alone in our dinky lot? What are they putting in that coffee? Cocaine?”

“I don’t know, Trix.” Just the sight of Java Kitty’s pink neon sign — a smug-cat outline with winking eyes — sizzled my blood. Ever since their grand opening a month ago, the trendy new café had been a real burr in my boot.

I’d made a point of avoiding the place. Wouldn’t want to look like I was spying on the competition. But here we were, stuck at the light, and it was hard not to peek through the window … seeing as how the entire wall was a window.

Sleek design, I must admit.

Inside, morning shows lit up jumbo flat-screens on the wall behind modern, white counters. A smiling barista, gliding by on a hoverboard, offered nibbles from a pastry tray.

My stomach sank. No wonder they were picking off our customers. What chance did we have against a hoverboard?

“Now that is how it’s done, dollface.” Trixie sounded way too impressed. “You might want to take notes.”

I gritted my teeth. “More driving, less chatting, please.”

Trixie went silent, so silent I could suddenly hear the engine. Her primitive spirit was hardwired into the car, though, so I could still sense her sulking.

If experience held, she’d drive passive-aggressively for the next mile and then go right back to yakking.

It was times like this I bemoaned not having a cat or one of those cute owls for a familiar.

Trying to calm my nerves, I turned my gaze back to the street. The blasted light was yellow again.

“I’m late,” I begged the car. “I can’t play games with you this morning.”

“Ugh, fine,” Trixie huffed and floored it.

Just as her front wheels entered the intersection, a flash of khaki uniform appeared on Java Kitty’s patio. I registered the buzzed, black hair and achingly perfect proportions of Deputy Elliot James, whose hawk eyes clocked me from behind his to-go, latte cup. Et tu, Elliot?

Trixie slammed on the brakes. Tires screeched. I yelped as hot coffee lurched into my lap, scalding my stomach through my knit top. It rivered down my jean skirt and onto the floormat.

Elliot was at my side in a hot second. “Hazel.”

How’d he fly over here so fast to ticket me? And Trixie, that traitor, was lowering her driver’s side window for him without even asking my consent.

“Already know what you’re going to say.” I folded my arms miserably over my coffee-soaked sweater. Hex my life, my first traffic ticket ever. “But please note that I did stop before I fully ran the red light. Better late than never, right?”

“I’ll take that under advisement.” His sharp, nearly black eyes looked too amused for my taste. “It’s not like you to bend traffic rules. Or any rules.” 

Great, so he was going to twist the knife and make fun of me, too, by alluding to my dorky rep in high school? Yeah, I’d earned a Good Citizenship award all four years. So?

Weirdly, my high school crush — the brooding loner in the back row who got no awards — was the one to enter law enforcement.

And now he was enforcing laws on me. 

Something in Elliot’s expression shifted as he took in my sleepy, coffee-covered self. “Something wrong?”

“Not at all.” Other than dying of embarrassment. And lateness. “I just need to get to work.” 

His expression seemed to snap back to normal. “Yes, you do.” 

He gestured to the road, and the sheer relief of it hit me. 

“You’re not giving me a ticket?”

“Not when the people need their muffins and scones and … I don’t know, little breakfast cakes,” he added with a completely straight face. “Godspeed, but don’t speed.”

He thought he was so above it all with his low-carb lifestyle. 

“We serve great lattes, too,” I called pointedly as Trixie tore off like a mic drop.

I drove the rest of the way to work drenched and coffee-stained. As Trixie tucked herself into my reserved spot behind the bakery, I silently cursed the Third Vow of a Green Witch, “Thou Shalt Not Use Magicks to Augment Thine Appearance.”

The first two were way more reasonable.

“Thou Shalt Not Use Magicks to Commit Murder.” Well, duh.

And “Thou Shalt Not Use Magicks to Cause A Person to Fall in Love.”

I wasn’t a monster.

I just didn’t see why conjuring a clean, dry outfit should get me turned into a toad.

Okay, not literally these days. I’d only be forbidden to practice Green Magic for a year and a day, which was an embarrassing inconvenience. Modern Green Witches were chill compared to vampires and shifters, who still ordered executions at the drop of a hat like it was the Middle Ages.

Or so I’d heard. No one we knew hung out with vampires or shifters. Gran always said they were secretive creatures, which I took to mean they didn’t organize pancake breakfasts, like the Green Witch Association monthly meetup where I’d won Trixie in a business card drawing last year.

I was bending over the utility sink in the bakery’s back room, wringing out my sopping skirt, when the savory scent of Granny Sage’s rosemary-cheddar-scallion scones baking in the oven wafted in.

“Hazel dear, you’re late again.”

I looked up to see Gran gazing with intense concern from the kitchen doorway. Embroidered toads danced on the sleeves of her cotton dress. Her white hair, silvered on the ends like a raincloud, hung over one shoulder, twisted into its usual side braid. She frowned at the wet spot on my skirt.

“No, I didn’t pee my pants, before you ask.” I squeezed the bottom of my sweater like a sponge. “My coffee spilled in the car, because of … um … a bad driver.”

“Dang tourists.” Gran tsked, hands on her generous hips. “Ruining the town is what they’re doing. Probably demon spawn, half of them.”

Of course she’d blame the tourists. That was her catch-all insult for newcomers to Blue Moon Bay or those whose parents had been new. Yep, Gran could be a touch small-minded when it came to her beloved hometown.

I bit my lip and tried not to think about the fact that Bryson was a newcomer to the Bay himself. Thanksgiving was only a few weeks away, and I hadn’t introduced him to my family yet … not even to Gran. She’d never approved of any of my boyfriends. And, one by one, I couldn’t help but notice, they’d all turned out to be prize jackwagons. Jackwagons who dumped me and broke my heart. Her judgment was like a cosmic pronouncement. 

Please, oh please, let Bryson break the loser chain.

“Sorry I’m late. I’ll start mixing up the cake batter right away.” I hung my purse on its wooden peg between two old broomsticks (ceremonial, not for transport) and offered a placating smile. “We should be ready to start the blessing spell by ten a.m.”

“About that, Hazel dear … you can take it off your to-do list.” Grandma Sage blew out a sigh, and guilt slithered through my guts. 

“You don’t think I’m up to helping you with the big spell?” Crap, had I been screwing up worse than I thought? I’d be the first to admit I’d been erratic lately, walking around dreamy and absent-minded, showing up late. It’s just that I’d never had a healthy and happy relationship before. 

“It’s not that.”

Gran cleared her throat and looked away, like what she was about to say was painful. My stomach plummeted. I was her granddaughter, apprentice, and sole magical heir. But that didn’t make me immune to getting fired. 

“We’ll be skipping the spell,” she said. 

My head snapped back in surprise. “Skipping, as in, no one’s going to bless this marriage? We’re leaving things up to chance?” My voice had pitched up. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

Gran shrugged vaguely. “It’s not like the bride and groom will ever know anything’s missing.”

“Not the point.” Ordinals, non-magical people, never knew about our spells, but they still benefited from them. Everyone in town did. “A happy marriage lifts up everyone around it,” I began. “You’re the one who taught me — ”

“Yes, well, not every union can be harmonious.” Gran’s voice turned sharp. “Some must be below average, by definition.”

I frowned. What had gotten into her? “But if we have the power to make things better, then we owe it to the people of Blue Moon Bay — ”

“That’s what I’m trying so desperately to avoid telling you, Hazel dear.” Gran exhaled. “I don’t have the power. Anymore.”

I stared at her in confusion. “What are you talking about? You’re the most powerful witch I know. You poof into work every day while I still drive a car.” 

Which wasn’t at all embarrassing, I told myself. Sure, Gran had mastered teleportation spells at twenty, but not every witch could be Gran. Between the bakery and having a love life for once, who could find the time to curl up with a six-hundred-page grimoire? At this rate, I’d have to put up with Trixie’s prattle for another decade, but hey, work-life balance. 

“You practically shine with magic,” I finished, getting back to Gran. “It’s intimidating.”

“Oh, honey, I know all that.” She waved her hand at me like I wasn’t getting the point. “The magic’s still inside me. I’m just having trouble getting it out these days. When you get to be my age, casting is a struggle. Lately, even minor spellwork leaves me stiff and aching. It’s been happening for a while, but now it’s progressing quickly.” She smiled sadly. “Soon it will be your time to shine.”

A chill ran down my back. Gran was over eighty, but she didn’t look it. Didn’t act it either, most of the time. Her magic couldn’t be fading. I was nowhere near ready for her to retire. For me to take over.

For the sign outside to read, “Hazel’s Bakery.”

“I tried one of those trendy ‘living room refresh’ spells last night,” Gran confessed. “Broke into hives. Worse, when my furniture replaced itself, it looked dull and sterile, like a dentist’s waiting room. I half-expected to see a tropical fish tank and stacks of Us magazine.”

“You’re scaring me, Gran.” I shivered. “I thought we’d have more time.”

I’d meant more time with me as her apprentice. Not, you know  … on Earth. But with sudden horror, I remembered that Gran’s own mentor, Granny Marge, had passed away soon after bequeathing her the business.

Gran was all the family I had, not counting the rest of my family. Which I didn’t. 

I’d been born to an elegant Beige Witch mother who drooled over Bottega handbags and was forever wringing her hands at what she called my “fashion blindness.” At least she had my two stylish sisters to console her and my clueless, ordinal dad to dote on them. 

Meanwhile, I had Gran.

What would I ever do without her?

“We’ll get through this.” I squeezed her hand. She weakly squeezed mine back.

How could I not have seen what was happening to her? Answer: I’d been too busy kissing Bryson.

I vowed to take my calling as a witch more seriously from now on. I’d have to. There’d be no one to pick up my slack.

“Or, really, I’ll get through it,” I corrected myself, “while you drink tea and catch up on your shows. You’ve been running the store for sixty years. You deserve a little relaxation.”

“You know us Green Witches aren’t good with retirement.” She smiled ruefully. “When our work’s done, it’s time to go.”

I wanted to argue, but it was hard to picture busy, practical Gran lounging around playing shuffleboard. As hard as it was to picture me running this place alone.

Inspiration struck me.

“What if your work isn’t over?” I said. “Forget retiring. Why not stay on part-time as an advisor to me?”

“That’s not a terrible idea.” She gave me a shrewd look. “But are you ready to be the one in charge?” 

Her blunt question caught me off-guard. I sure didn’t feel ready, but what choice did I have? I answered as honestly as I could. “Gran, I love this bakery with all my heart. I’ve memorized your spells. Year by year, I’ll add my own into the family recipe book. And one day, I’ll pass it on to my own granddaughter.”

Assuming, of course, that I haven’t driven the place into bankruptcy.

“I have great faith in you, Hazel dear,” Grandma Sage said as if reading my mind, which she swears is not something our line of witches can do. She patted my hand, but her gaze still looked troubled. “I only wish I weren’t bequeathing it to you at such an awkward time. Java Kitty Café is, well … ”

“Gonna get hairballs from eating our dust.” It was only tough talk, but it made Grandma Sage smile. That’s all I cared about at this moment. She deserved some peace of mind after pouring her magical energies into this job for sixty years. “Why don’t you work the register while I tackle this wedding cake, including the proper blessing.”

Soloing the spell would zonk me out, but it would be worth it. Humming to myself, I tied on an apron. 

I was measuring dry ingredients into prep bowls when a green, vintage Mustang eased into our parking lot, its driver’s tangled, red hair raging in the wind.

A familiar twinge of frustration lit my chest as Maxine de Klaw sprinted through the lot in shredded jeans and Docs, her baggy sweatshirt printed with some math equation joke I’d never get. 

When she first started coming to the bakery, I thought it was because she missed our friendship. Ten thousand orders later, I’d accepted she just saw us as a chill coworking spot to work on her news blog, Blue Moon Roundup, which had eclipsed the Gazette as our town’s official paper.

“Least we still have our best customer,” Gran said with a chuckle. Max’s ability to devour pastries while she worked at her laptop was legendary. “I’ll let you get your friend’s order.”

“Okay.” I rolled my eyes. No matter what I said, Gran persisted in the delusion that Max and I were still besties. I set down my prep bowl of baking soda to head to the register. 

Through the front window, Max looked lost in thought, but that was just her normal expression. She burst through the door, glasses foggy from the cold, her goofy half-smile reminding me of all the times in high school when she’d thought up some crazy scheme guaranteed to get us both in trouble.

Now? Who knew what that smile meant.

When a romantic relationship ended, at least you got a breakup. But friendship, even one as close as ours, could simply end. With no explanation.

“Morning, Miss Sage. Hazel.” My childhood friend nodded at Gran but didn’t meet her eyes. Or mine. Hmm, that was odd … even for Max. “I’ll take a large mocha to go and three fudge brownies.” She paused. “And a Blue Moon Mornin’ Roll with cheddar.”

“Will that be all?” I asked, not sarcastically. Two thousand calories was a light breakfast to Max and her genetic, lottery-winning metabolism. 

“Actually … make it an extra-large mocha. With chocolate whip.”

“Coming right up.” I grabbed a fresh wax paper liner and a plate and reached into the cold case for brownies. And blinked as two very un-Max-like words registered. “Sorry, did you say togo?” 

She fiddled with her key fob, again not meeting my eyes. “Yup.”

“Cool. Great.”

Confused, I tilted my gaze at our stack of compostable to-go cups and trays, as if I’d suddenly forgotten how to use them, because none of this made sense. Max was our bakery’s equivalent of a barfly. For years now, she was our corner booth’s laptop-camper, clack-clacking and racking up an impressive tab over the day with her mocha addiction.

“You didn’t bring your laptop today,” I realized, then gasped. “Is she broken?” 

“Nah … I just can’t stay, Hazel.” Her green eyes darted to the right. “Something came up. A family thing.” Man, she sounded suspicious, like someone making up an excuse.

But an excuse for what? I wondered in the awkward silence while I arranged her brownies onto a flimsy, compostable tray that looked like a glare would melt it.

“I hope your parents are doing all right, Maxine?” Gran prompted. “And Kade, too?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah … they’re all fine.” She glanced up from punching in her ATM code to frown at the counter. “Dude, it’s just me. You don’t need to get all fancy.”

She swiped a brownie, stuffed it in her mouth, and pocketed the other two like a preschooler. Latte cup in one paw, roll in the other, Max nodded a solemn goodbye and backed out of the room, humming under her breath with perfect pitch.

It was either Beethoven or heavy metal.

As I watched her bump into the door and yelp at her coffee-splashed arm, then lick it, I was knocked down by a powerful wave of missing her. 

It’s not like I was without friends these days. Rose Verdant and the other girls from Magic Sprouts garden store shared my love of herbs. I met up with them for brunch or a show now and then. There was a Green Witch spell book club that convened every other full moon to gossip over glasses of chardonnay. I wouldn’t say I had a posse, but I had peeps.

Problem was, none of them were crazy weirdos like Max. And so, I never once found myself screaming with laughter at three a.m. in a tidepool with them. Or swerving off on a spontaneous road trip. Or fighting about something stupid, then making up, and arguing all over again during the recap. None of my other friends defended me by spraying Predator Pee through the locker slats of my enemies. 

Max had set the bar too high. 

I hefted the ten-pound baking soda package back onto its shelf in the pantry and headed glumly to the walk-in fridge to retrieve the three dozen eggs our recipe demanded.

Max had appeared in my life just in time. Eleven years ago, the autumn I turned seventeen, my mother officially banished me from the daily Beige Magic lessons she taught my sisters and me. A ritual of failure that had made my stomach hurt every morning since I could recall. “I’m sorry to say it, but Hazel doesn’t have our gift.” Those were her exact words, and they made me start bawling. My big sister Bea’s gaze filled with pity while I begged Mother to please reconsider. My younger sister Cindra averted her eyes from the gory train wreck. 

After pronouncing me hopeless, Mother shipped me off to Gran’s kitchen to learn to bake pies and cakes, which was, she said with a sigh, probably more my speed. She was right, but not in the way she imagined.

The Green Magic I was born with turned out to be ten times more potent than Beige. But more importantly, I loved every minute of working with Gran. On the fateful day when I helped her bake a mess of Thanksgiving pies for charity, she outfitted us both in silly three-cornered hats that made our customers smile. Holding up the first pecan pie I’d ever baked, I posed shyly for a Blue Moon Gazette reporter writing a feel-good story. 

Unfortunately, that photo inspired Blue Moon High’s resident mean girls — Ashlee Stone, Jenna Jeffries, and Britt Salazar — to start taunting me with the nickname, “Goody Two-Shoes.” It was dumb, but it stuck to me thanks to their immense popularity … plus, my stack of citizenship awards wasn’t helping. Where I used to feel invisible at school, now, constant bullying drove me to tears daily. It soon felt as miserable as home did — and with no bedroom door for me to hide behind. Gran and the bakery were my solace, but I couldn’t take them with me to school. What saved me was the tall, smart, red-headed girl in my class who was just as odd as me. Who fought the bullies back and looked out for me, too. I’d even come out to her as a witch — and Max thought that was the coolest thing she’d heard in her life.

I cracked the first egg, separating its yolk with one expert, gloved hand. The white part oozed into a bowl below.None of that old drama mattered anymore, I told myself firmly. Not the mean girl trio. Not the banishment. Not even Max, who I’d loved like a sister, but who ghosted me for reasons I’d probably never learn. 

Only one person in the world had consistently been there for me: Gran. She’d seen the spark of magic in me when literally no one else did. Now Gran needed me, and I wasn’t about to let her down. So what if I wasn’t ready to take over the bakery? I’d make myself ready. It was the only way I could honor the witch who’d turned my life around. 

Turning my attention back to the recipe, I flipped on the electric mixer and cranked it to the highest setting. As I beat the eggs into froth, I told myself these things over and over so firmly that I almost believed them. 

The next four hours zipped by. While Gran served coffee and pushed fresh rosemary scones on our (sadly too few) customers, I whipped up a cloud of buttercream in our industrial stand mixer, poured cake batter into molds, and painstakingly unrolled thick, satiny fondant.

As I stood at the counter chopping up magical herbs for the spell, Granny Sage watched me from behind the pastry case. The pride in her eyes warmed me despite my chilly, wet clothing. As soon as this spell was in the bag, I vowed, I’d finally bite the bullet and tell her about Bryson and me.

At 11:03 a.m., I inspected the final product. Wedding cakes always brought out my inner perfectionist. I tended to work extra slow, meticulously obsessing on tiny flaws no guest would notice. But today’s cake was by necessity a rush job, and to my surprise, I was pleased with my work. Cream-colored roses and strung, silver beads made of sugar trimmed the smooth expanses of each tier. Raspberry and vanilla flavor would explode from every bite.

Now, for the final ingredient …

“I, Hazel Greenwood, humble Green Witch, reach out to the universe with both hands open.” Spreading my fingers wide, I rested my right hand over my heart. Then I plunged my left hand in the small bowl of herbs and charged water that I’d prepped while the cake was baking. Instantly, my vision blurred. A familiar, low rumbling vibrated in my ears, as if an earthquake were in progress. Then the bakery kitchen’s colors grew bold. Vibrant. Boundaries and edges ran like paint, as if real life had slipped on a Van Gogh photo filter. Suspended in midair, bright green astral trees and plants bloomed between the physical objects in my line of sight. One hand in each realm. Me, the living bridge between them.

Softly, I began to recite the incantation:

“Together shall your hearts endure,

Through all of life’s trials unsure,

In times of laughter, times of tears,

When hair grows from his nose and ears.

Or when vacations feel like work,

Because your toddler’s gone berserk.

Like an acorn planted deep,

With roots of patience love will keep.

Growing stronger by and by — ”

“Drat!” Grandma Sage cried out, rousing me from my magical trance. “Hazel dear, I see the bride. She’s walking up now,” she said in disbelief. “She’s half an hour early.”

Horrified, I glanced outside. Marching toward the front door was a model-type with a platinum chignon. Her high heels tapped a staccato beat growing louder as she approached.

“This can’t be happening. I’m not that close to finishing the spell. I won’t have time!”

“Welp.” Grandma Sage sounded as crushed as I felt. “A dud marriage could build character, I s’pose.”

Our welcome chimes dinged. Never had they sounded such a mournful tone.

I patted Gran’s shoulder. “I’ll handle talking to her. Can you box up the cake and put it on a dolly?”

This time, she didn’t hesitate but vanished into the back room, leaving me face-to-face with the woman whose marriage I’d inadvertently wronged.

Guilt scuttled like a roach through my guts as the gorgeous young bride strode up to the counter. Wowzer, that diamond of hers was bigger than a chocolate Kiss. I shoehorned on my best “customer service” smile and chirped, “Good morning, miss. Congratulations on your wed — ”

“I don’t have time for chitchat.” She waved me away with her sparkly hand. “You can go on and fetch my cake now.”

I gritted my teeth. I was not used to rude customers. In a town as small as Blue Moon Bay, most locals knew better. Heck, even tourists knew better. “Miss, you are quite early. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to come back in half an hour?”

She stared at me as if waiting for the punchline.

I sighed. “Hang tight, miss. We’re boxing up the cake for you now.”

“Cool. I love waiting around for stuff I’ve already paid for.” She pouted with full, juicy, raspberry-hued lips. “I shouldn’t even be here, you know. This is all my personal assistant’s fault for quitting the day before my actual wedding — can you imagine?”

“No,” I said flatly, because I couldn’t imagine having an assistant in the first place. Was this rude lady a celebrity? She did look gorgeous, not to mention weirdly familiar.

Especially those eyes. Mean, green, hungry eyes. They looked me up and down appraisingly. “I don’t suppose you’d want a job?”

“I have one.” I paused for effect. “Here.”

“Oh, you’re so sweet. I meant a career job. Not a hairnet job.” The blinged goddess wrinkled her perfect nose and smiled down at me, and the smile was in the neighborhood of a sneer and looked tantalizingly familiar.

“I cannot function without an assistant,” she confessed. “My life’s too complicated. I need a team member on hand twenty-four seven. What do they pay you here? I’ll double it.”

“You want to poach me from Sage’s Bakery?” I laughed, even though something about this imperious woman made my palms sweat like nothing had in years. Since high school, if I’m being honest. “Thanks, but it’s a family business.”

The mean bride gasped. “You’re old lady Sage’s granddaughter, aren’t you? Knew you looked familiar … ” A leer twisted her Angelina Jolie lips. That leer haunted my dreams. “How’s it going, Goody Two-Shoes?”

It was Ashlee Stone. Popular, mean Ashlee Stone, my old bully. She’d colored her mousy hair a pale blonde and added high-volume lips. She’d slimmed down her nose, too, and puffed up her boobs. But though she was now more silicone than woman, one thing hadn’t changed. Her meanness.

I swallowed. “My name is Hazel, Ashlee.”

“That’s right. Sweet little Hazel.” Ashlee slipped on a fake smile. Apparently, I was worth one now that I’d been upgraded from clerk to classmate. “So. What’s new and exciting in your world? Anything?”

She sounded doubtful, but I decided to treat it like a sincere question.

“I’m in a good place, thanks. I love my job.”

She let out a squeal. “That’s so cute! Someone ‘loves’ working in a bakery. You’re as adorable as ever.” She glanced at my bare finger. “And single as ever, too. Your life must be so … uncluttered.”

Helpless anger welled up in me. It was disappointing sometimes how little people changed. Rumors had flown after high school that Ashlee had moved to Los Angeles, failed at modeling, and drifted into couch surfing, pot, and chubbiness. At the time, I imagined a little failure might humanize her. But everything about the woman in front of me screamed success, screamed it right in my face. From her designer bandage dress to her three-ton diamond set in platinum.

And the way she was eyeing my coffee-stained sweater made it clear she still relished the huge gulf between us. Like always.

But Ashlee wasn’t just my bully now. She was my customer. I forced myself to keep it professional.

“Yep, that’s me. Uncluttered. I’m even my own personal assistant, ha ha. But back to you. You’re getting married tomorrow! Sooo great.”

“I know, right?” At her queenly smile, I congratulated myself on not letting her jerkness get to me. Much. Then Ashlee added with a coy look, “So what’s it like working for that batty old crone?”

My stomach fluttered. Oh, she did not. “Excuse me?”

Ashlee’s smile was as sweet as one of those new diet sodas that you just know will turn out to cause cancer. “You heard me, Goody Two-Shoes.”

A painful truth I’d learned growing up was that ordinals didn’t always see Gran the way we witches did, as a wise leader. Some looked at my powerful mentor and saw only a slightly scatterbrained, batty old lady. My own mother, Gran’s daughter-in-law, was forever encouraging her to replace her homespun dresses with jewel-toned jogging suits and clip her long, white hair into a respectable Karen cut.

Gran was too big of a person to mind it all. But I wasn’t.

I leaned forward so my face and Ashlee’s face were inches apart. Her floral perfume made me dizzy, but I forced myself to meet her dazzling, wolfish eyes the way I never could in high school. “It’s my privilege to learn from one of our town’s living legends,” I said as calmly as I could and added under my breath, “They say that marriage changes a person, so congrats in advance to your fiancé.”

Ashlee’s eyes darted from side to side as she tried to figure out exactly how I’d insulted her.

Before she could huff out a rejoinder, a refined, alto voice called out from behind her, “Why, look at you girls having such a lovely chat. I had no idea you two were old friends!”

A jovial, middle-aged woman stood in the doorway, towering nearly a foot over me in her sturdy, high-heeled riding boots. From her smooth, grey pageboy to her taupe, suede car coat to her Louis Vuitton handbag that contained a small, fluffy white dog, Estelle Kensington looked every inch the affluent matron whose family milestones were documented by local media. Seeing her in person always made me feel starstruck. Maybe it was because I’d grown up seeing her portrait on display at the town library, which she and her husband, Frederick, built in honor of their son.

The most eligible bachelor in town, dark-haired, broad-shouldered Drew Kensington was the closest thing we had to a prince. Whenever his private school football team whipped Blue Moon High’s, the girls on our side quietly cheered for Drew. One of our cheerleaders, Jenna Jeffries, went further and dated him. Even I, mousy Goody Two-Shoes, had indulged the odd secret fantasy of being swept off my feet by our town’s own heartthrob … oh, my Gods.

Ashlee was marrying Drew?

That alone was proof life wasn’t fair.

“Mother Kensington!” Ashlee’s voice honeyed as she rushed over to exchange air-kisses with Estelle. “Such a lovely surprise. I’m honored that you came. Hiya, Sammy Boy, you sweet puppy.” The lapdog yipped indignantly as she stroked his ears with her ice-pink, shellac manicure.

If Ashlee was faking her deference, she was at least putting in the effort. Or was it possible even she felt cowed by the level of wealth and power she was marrying into? The Kensingtons dominated the elite Blue Moon Heights Country Club set. Now Ashlee would, too. As the future queen of Blue Moon Bay’s high society, I thought darkly, she’ll probably outlaw libraries and museums from town.

Leaving only lash-extension salons and Botox clinics. Maybe the odd Sephora.

Granny Sage took that moment to emerge pushing a dolly stacked with three neat, white bakery boxes. Mrs. Kensington and Ashlee crowded around it to peek inside at the cake.

“Such a timeless work of art,” Mrs. Kensington gushed, as if it were a Renoir. To Ashlee, she added, “In this vulgar age, it’s hard to find a classic design like this anywhere but at Sage’s Bakery.”

“Yeah, um, super classic, right?” Ashlee echoed, sounding deferential for once.

No doubt she was just shamelessly sucking up to her future mother-in-law, but the rain of compliments from them both made me squirm with guilt. I knew the truth about that cake, even if they never would.

It was unblessed.

Unmagical.

A failure.

I was relieved when a stylish, mid-thirties woman with an ebony fauxhawk burst in, panting. “So sorry, ma’am. Kent couldn’t find a parking space big enough for the Hummer, so we’re circling.”

“Don’t apologize, Leeza. I’m having such a nice chat with Sage’s granddaughter.”

“Ah, right, you must be Hazel.” The stylish assistant nodded at me.

“You know my name?” I blurted out.

“Sorry, that may have sounded creepy.” Leeza laughed, and it was that rusty bark of a laugh you hear from people who are wound too tight. “See, it’s my job to keep tabs on all the up-and-coming artisans in Blue Moon Bay.” She stole a glance around the shop and narrowed her eyes. Was she taking in the silence, the empty tables? Her inspection made me feel uneasy. “I keep an up-to-date spreadsheet listing every chef, baker, stylist, and what have you. We’re always hiring for events and so on.”

That was interesting, I thought, wondering what they might pay for a catering gig. The green cushion on the bakery’s corner booth had the stuffing coming out of it, and too many of our mugs were chipped …

“Any friend of Ashlee’s gets priority, of course.” Mrs. K smiled and gestured to the space between Ashlee and me, as if there were something good happening there. “I never did get the story on how you two know each other. Horseback riding pals? Tennis camp?”

Ashlee snorted softly under her breath. For once, I didn’t blame her. The thought of us as BFFs enjoying rich-kid hobbies together was too much.

Ashlee had grown up on an ordinary street with modest ramblers and overgrown backyards. My street.

She’d moved in when we were eighth graders for the most unglamorous of reasons: Her mom was online-dating a townie, and they’d decided to shack up. By graduation, that romance was done-zo, so Ashlee and her mom headed back to California. Forever, I’d hoped.

“We were classmates, ma’am,” I said, praying that the word made it clear we weren’t close.

It didn’t. Estelle Kensington was just too unflappably positive to glean that my friendship with Ashlee wasn’t a thing.

“In that case, here.” Mrs. K reached into her Louis Vuitton bag, after giving Sammy Boy a scratch behind his white ears, and presented an engraved card on plush, cream-colored paper. “Hopefully, you can make it to our little wedding celebration tomorrow?”

I gulped. “Um, wow, I really couldn’t — ”

“Mother Kensington, you are too kind. Too, too kind. But I’m sure Hazel must be so very busy.” Ashlee shot me a murderous look. I almost chuckled at her desperate need to keep losers like me away from her exclusive event. As if she had anything to worry about. I had zero desire to buy my ex-bully a wok, waffle iron, or fondue set. She’d proved herself to be the same, shallow mean girl as ever. All those nasty barbs.

Especially about Gran, who at this very moment was fixing me with a pointed look. Eyes wide. Grey head nodding. Eager for me to say yes, to pick up the engraved card Estelle Kensington was holding out to me.

Why?

The blessing spell. If I went to the wedding, I’d have one final opportunity to stand over the cake for a few solid minutes (without anyone noticing, somehow) and complete the spell.

To prove I was ready to take over the bakery.

Ashlee Stone, soon to be Kensington, was staring daggers at my head.

I took a deep breath. Hex my life. “Ashlee, I’d be honored to attend your wedding tomorrow.”