Page 96 of Heart’s Cove Hunks

Gus tilts his head. “You didn’t hear about your own partner pulling out of the competition?”

Uh-oh. “I never even met her.”

Gus lets out a long sigh and stares at the ceiling. “That would have been great television. Oh well.” He turns around and takes a step before I stop him.

“Wait. What happened?”

“Broke her legs in a water-skiing accident, poor girl,” Gus says with a wave of his hand. “Got the call this morning right after I finished one of your amazing croissants at the café, which was fortunate, all things considered.”

Frowning, I watch him turn around and stride down the hallway. “Why were my croissants fortunate?” None of this makes any sense. I hustle to catch up to him. “Will I be competing alone?”

I’m shuffling behind him, readjusting my bag on my shoulder for the thousandth time and trying to remember what the hell I packed that was so damn heavy.

“No, of course not. We got a replacement. Like I said, fortunate.” He stops at a door. “Your room, madam,” Gus says with a bow and a flourish, gesturing to the closed room.

The knob turns freely and I push the door open, stepping onto the threshold to get a look at where I’ll be staying.

The first thing I hear is a strange ruffling sound, but nothing looks out of place. To my relief, the room is nice and well-appointed, with a neat double bed and sturdy timber furniture. When Amanda pitched this show to me, I was imagining zero privacy, but she assured me the only filmed portions of the show would be the actual baking competition. It’s not a reality show, she assured me. Very classy. Very professional.

At least the production costs cover private rooms. I drop my bag just inside the door.

There are no bunk beds in sight, which alleviates my biggest fear of being on a television competition bunking with a bunch of strangers. Even better, everyone will be out in the guesthouses so hopefully I won’t need to interact with them much more than necessary.

Look. I know that sounds bad, but it’s the truth. I’m an introvert and a homebody. Simone, Fiona, and Candice—my co-owners at Four Cups—can be the town’s social butterflies. I’m happiest when I’m surrounded by baked goods and houseplants.

Another ruffling sound ripples through the room, followed by a snap, like a tea towel being flicked. Frowning, I glance around the tidy space for the source of the noise, then look down at myself and my bag. No stray straps, nothing that would sound like a snap.

What in the world?

The snapping sound rings out again, twice in quick succession. I glance back at Gus, who looks horrified by something inside the room. His eyes are angled toward the ceiling.

I take a single step inside, look up at the exposed roof rafters, and freeze.

Dozens of crows are perched on the beams. As soon as I cross the threshold, the cawing starts. The nearest crow cries and I just stare at it, then look forward at the wide-open window.

“Oh, dear,” Gus whispers behind me.

Then the swooping starts.

The crow nearest to me dive-bombs, swooping near my head as I double over.

I scream, throwing my hands up to protect my face. Without my hand holding onto the doorknob, the door swings open wider and more crows start their attack.

The noise is deafening. The swoops are never-ending. Crow after crow after crow attacks my head, with their talons and beaks pecking at my hair, my neck, my shoulders. I fall to my knees with a yelp, then flop forward onto my front.

Gus screams for help. I’m breathless as I try to protect my face from the swooping crows. They’re vicious as they attempt to rip apart my face—or at least that’s how it feels. Most of them just swoop close but don’t touch, but the noise of the wings and the intensity of the swoops has me screaming. My hands are clutched over the back of my head as I lie on my stomach on the floor, the insistent cawing of a murder of crows resonating from all corners of the room.

This is an omen. I don’t believe in omens, obviously, but a literal murder of crows attacking me as soon as I step foot in my room? Come on.

I quit. I’m going home. I’m locking myself in the Four Cups kitchen and baking for the next seventy-two hours straight just to wipe the memory of this from my mind.

Screw winning. I don’t care about the hundred grand. This isn’t worth it.

But first, I need to get the hell out of here. Gus is still screaming, and I hear the sound of his retreating footsteps as he runs away. Wonderful. I’m on my own.

I take a moment to peek over my shoulder, only to see a huge crow diving for me. I scream, shielding my head just in time to protect it from a sharp peck. Pain lashes across the back of my hand.

Get out get out get out I need to GET OUT.