Summer Bloom needed a vacation from her life. Golden sands . . . A sparkling ocean . . . She’d even settle for a cocktail with a little umbrella floating in it if it meant she could sleep past dawn and relax someplace without chaos, ten-flame burners, and a tiny sadistic Frenchman yelling at full volume.

“Order up on three!”

“Fire six benedict, three salmon, two crab!”

The noise of the busy restaurant kitchen clattered around her. It was brunch prep on a Saturday morning, and all hands were on deck. Sous-chefs diced onions and whisked hollandaise, busboys raced around fetching clean silverware, and the wait staff pored over the menus, but Summer kept her head down and focused on packing up her baking supplies. After two weeks of twelve-hour shifts, she finally had the weekend off, and she wasn’t going to let anything drag her back into the fray. Even if the substitute pastry chef was screwing up the crepes.

Summer paused, watching as he added egg whites to the bowl. Didn’t he realize the batter would tighten up the minute it hit the pan—

Nope!

She dragged her gaze away. It wasn’t her problem. For the next forty-eight hours, she was off the clock—tough crepes be damned!

Summer loaded her frosting utensils into her bag and headed for the back door, but she was only a few steps from freedom when Chef Andre moved to block her path.

“Where are you going?” he demanded. He was a small man in stature, but he more than made up for it in volume—and ego. “I need your strawberry gastrique for the duck tonight!”

“I’m going to Cape Cod, remember?” Summer replied. Andre looked blank. “You volunteered me to do the cake for the Kenmore wedding,” she added, trying to keep her tone even. Volunteered wasn’t exactly the word she would have chosen, but she knew the Kenmores were the restaurant’s biggest investors. “I have to drive up to make the delivery. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late for the reception.”

“Then go, go!” Andre shooed her away, before turning his attention back to the kitchen, like a mountain lion searching out his next prey. “Lewis!”

Summer quickly darted past, letting the door bang shut behind her. The back alleyway may have smelled like rotting dumpsters, but to her, it was the sweet scent of freedom. She carefully unlocked the produce truck she was borrowing for the trip, and checked the back of the van. Six layers of perfectly-frosted cake sat, packed into individual padded boxes, plus enough ingredients for any last-minute emergency fixes. Not that there could be any. This was her famous sweet summer peach cake, and required days of preparation to get the flavors just right. She’d been up all night making sure every bite would be perfect, and now she just had to get herself—and the cake—through the five-hour drive without either of them falling apart.

Simple?

Summer hit the road, leaving the loud, smoggy New York streets behind as she headed out of the city and along the highways up towards the coast. She played the radio loud, skipping between Top 40 stations as the signal dipped in and out, and with every passing mile, she felt her tension ease. Her shoulders unknotted, her pulse slowed, and by the time she crossed the Sagamore Bridge onto the curling bicep of the Cape, she almost felt close to human again.

Working at Chez Andre was like living in a war zone. It was one of the best fine-dining restaurants in the city, complete with a coveted Michelin Star, but all that prestige came with a price. Andre ruled the kitchen like a tyrant. Her blood pressure had gone through the roof since she’d been working there, she’d lost twenty pounds running around on her feet all day, and as for dating? Aside from a relationship with a rival chef that ended in heartbreak, she hadn’t even tried in years. But that was life in a high-end kitchen. When Summer told people she was a chef, most of them imagined she was waltzing around in a cute white hat, tasting spoonfuls of sauce and dreaming up exotic menus, but the reality was very different. It was a fiercely competitive profession, especially at the best restaurants, and they all paid in blood, sweat, and tears for the chance to learn from the best. Sometimes she wondered why she put herself through it, but the answer was always the same.

She loved food.

The tastes, the textures, the alchemy behind every mouthful . . . Ever since she was a kid, and had discovered that a simple box of dry mix and a tub of frosting could produce the wonder of a freshly baked cake, Summer had been madly, wildly, recklessly in love with baking. The plate was her canvas, her mixing spoon was her conductor’s baton—Summer would happily mix metaphors all day long for the chance to pursue her passion. Not that she got much of a chance. Chef Andre was famed for his intricate fine dining, full of precise, elaborate details. Why send out a perfect summer fruit pie when you could spin bird-shaped sugar baskets and fill them with freeze-dried ice cream and beads of coulis? Summer didn’t buy into his “more is more” philosophy, but that was the way the culinary world worked. It was her job to execute the head chef’s vision, until the day she had enough experience (and investors) to strike out on her own.

She already knew exactly the kind of place she’d run, one day. She’d been dreaming about it for years. A little bakery of her own, where decadent chocolate tortes jostled side by side with lighter-than-air meringues, the air was scented with vanilla and butter, and nobody screamed at you for plating the dessert without a streak of gold leaf on the dish. She would turn out delicacies all day long—not tired old pound cakes, but new, interesting flavors, like the sweet summer cake sitting in the backseat, with slices of fresh, bourbon-soaked peaches baked right into the batter. Summer had made it at the restaurant one night in a fit of rebellion, when the soufflés Andre ordered refused to rise. He’d stormed in, ready to fire her, until the notes started coming back from the dining room, all lavish with praise. One diner had loved it so much, she’d even begged for Summer to bake it for her wedding, so here she was, driving three hundred miles out of the city with fifteen pounds of cake packed up tightly like precious works of art. Which Summer rather thought they were.

She checked the directions on the GPS again, and found she was just a few miles out. The road had shrunk to a two-lane highway, with a canopy of pine trees shading the blue skies overhead and the ocean glinting through the trees. Summer rolled the windows all the way down to enjoy the warm, sunny day and took a breath of salty sea air. She’d been living in the windowless kitchen for so long, she hadn’t even noticed the seasons change. Now, it was almost Memorial Day—time for herbed salads and fresh fruit sorbets, lobster rolls and sweet taffy that stuck to your fingers.

She smiled. The truth was, she had an ulterior motive for making the delivery in person. Her best friend, Poppy, had just moved out to the Cape, and as soon as she was done with the wedding, they had a whole weekend planned to reconnect, relax—and for Summer to meet this new man who had swept her friend off her feet. She’d heard plenty of stories about him, but as the best friend, it was her official duty to size him up and make sure he wouldn’t break Poppy’s heart.

Her cellphone rang, and Summer hit the speaker, expecting it to be Poppy. “Hey babe,” she said happily, “I’m almost there.”

“Almost where?”

The voice on the other end of the line deflated Summer’s good mood in an instant. “Hi, Mom.”

“Where are you? I called the restaurant, but they said you had the day off. You shouldn’t be slacking,” Eve Bloom said disapprovingly. “You know there are a dozen sous-chefs who would kill for the chance to work under Andre.”

“I am working,” Summer explained. “I had to make a wedding cake for an event out of state.”

“You’re catering?” Her mother’s voice rose, and Summer winced.

“It’s a favor,” she soothed her. “Besides, the Kenmores are Andre’s biggest investors. I’m sure there will be tons of restaurant people at the wedding, and they’ll be a captive audience to my baking.”

“Hmm, well, alright.” Eve seemed mollified. “But make sure you circulate and meet everyone, don’t just hide away in the kitchen. Investors buy into a personality, not just the food.”

Summer stifled a sigh. Her mother would know. Eve Bloom was one of the biggest TV chefs in the country, with a collection of cookbooks, Food Network shows, and even a line of non-stick pans selling gangbusters at Target. She’d built an empire out of smiling perfection, and no matter how hard she tried, Summer knew she’d never live up to her mother’s example—which is why she’d given up on winning Eve’s approval ten years ago, and had set about forging her own path, instead.

“And be sure to wear your hair back from your face,” Eve continued. “Did you show your stylist those photos I sent? Marcie agrees, bangs would make your nose look much smaller.”

Marcie was her mother’s hair and makeup assistant. “Uh huh,” Summer answered vaguely. She’d learned the hard way it was easier just to agree with everything her mom said.

And live halfway across the country from her, too.

Her father had the same idea: he’d divorced Eve when Summer was six, and now lived up in Alaska with his third wife and five Husky dogs. Her older brother had done one better—he barely stepped foot in the States at all with his job as a photojournalist, which meant Summer was lucky enough to get the full force of their mother’s attention. “Anyway, the reason I’m calling is we’re going to need you in the studio next week,” Eve continued briskly. “I’m flying out to film a family meal segment, sharing recipes down through the generations. I’ll teach you to make a pie, and then we’ll host a nice family dinner together.”

Summer laughed out loud, then quickly covered it with a cough. “Family?” she echoed in disbelief. “Pie?”

The last time her mother had baked pie for the family was . . . never. She’d never baked them pie. Because despite her public image as hostess supreme, the truth was, Eve Bloom barely stepped foot in the kitchen—unless the cameras were rolling.

“It’s the pitch for my new series, I told you about it. We’re going for a more homey feel. Anyway, I’ll put you down for the 9 a.m. call-sheet.”

“No, Mom, I’m not coming on your show—” Summer tried to object, but Eve didn’t pause for breath.

“I’ll have Marcie take care of those bangs. And wear something blue, you know the stage lights always wash you out.”

“Mom, I told you, I’m not—”

Suddenly, there was a flash of orange ahead on the road. Summer cursed out loud and slammed on the brakes, yanking the wheel to avoid hitting . . .

What was that?

She caught a glimpse of something round and fluffy dashing off into the undergrowth as she pulled over to the side of the road. She caught her breath, her pulse racing.

So much for lowering her blood pressure. Between her mom’s delightful call and that kamikaze cat, she would be lucky if she reached the wedding in one piece.

Summer checked the backseat, but the cake boxes were thankfully intact, and when she fished her cellphone from where it had fallen between the seats, there was nothing but dial tone. Her mom had already hung up.

“Thanks a lot, buddy.” Summer could see the cat through the windshield: a fat ginger fluffball now happily sunning himself on the steps of a ramshackle old house, as if he hadn’t just tried to kill her. “Look both ways next time.”

Yes, she was talking to a cat. No, she hadn’t slept in twenty-two hours.

She needed coffee, and fast.