Page 1 of The Cupcake Standard

Chapter One

I stopped believing in fairy tales the day I caught my mother cheating with her book agent. When I was a little girl, I used to stare at my parents’ wedding photos for hours, hoping I would find a love like theirs. But true love was a myth, just like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. I still dated, but my heart wasn’t up for grabs. It wasn’t worth the risk.

Two years had flown by since Mother’s first cheating incident, even now I felt her sharp eyes following me. I glanced up from the latte I was making, meeting the cardboard cut-out across the room where it stood sentinel next to a display for her newest self-help book. Why does it have to be here? I snapped the lid on to the cup with enough force that whipped cream spattered over me.

Great. Typical Monday.

My apologetic smile at the customer was sincere, but my forthcoming excuse was a lie. “Sorry, I’m a little stressed. I have a big exam coming up.”

One of the best parts of working at Not Your Average Joe, the coffee shop across from Southern Michigan University, was blaming a bad day on the stress of college life. Customers were shockingly forgiving when SMU, ‘smoo’ to us students, was looped into the excuse.

Mother’s piercing green eyes stared at me, so similar to my own, and I heard her shrill voice scolding me about my apron. I sighed, rubbing my forehead. Had her gross agent Jack made a deal with Not Your Average Joe, just to torture me? It wasn’t enough that I had to accept her paying for college to avoid drowning in debt by graduation, I was forced to look at her overly zealous smile, towering red hair and the super low-cut neckline of her dress every shift, as well? Thanks a lot. No one needed to see that much of their mother.

I grabbed a damp cloth to clean tables in the mostly empty lobby. Somehow, I resisted the urge to throw the dirty rag at my mother’s smiling face, the face of the woman who had not only betrayed Daddy but still wouldn’t cut him loose. I swallowed the familiar stab of pain that came whenever my thoughts drifted to my parents’ façade of a marriage.

It wasn’t fair. Mother had written self-help books for most of my childhood. Her success exploded two years ago, her fame growing exponentially. Her YouTube channel instantly went viral, becoming an overnight, trendsetting sensation. Companies all over the globe vied for her to endorse products on her show, flooding her with free samples. We went from upper middle class to filthy rich with the snap of a finger, and Mother reveled in it.

Daddy had supported her through it all, celebrating her successes, encouraging her through low points and was the perfect rock for her to lean on. How did she thank him? The moment he needed her help, she shoved him aside. Even after all Daddy had done for her, the world didn’t know he existed. As his illness progressed, Mother grew more adept at keeping him in the shadows, and it became his permanent residence.

The bell on the door jangled. I looked up to find the embodiment of my turbulent thoughts sweeping into the coffee shop. Mabel Milbourne—trendsetter, fashion icon and author of the now infamous self-help book How to Land a Guy…and Keep Him!—in the flesh. Otherwise known as my mother.

“Avery, darling.” Her always blinding white teeth gleamed in a glaring smile framed by fire truck red lips. The shade matched her most definitely dyed hair, her natural color much closer to my own strawberry blonde. She was shorter than me, around five seven, and slender.

My smile was forced. “Mother.” I hurried behind the counter to wash my hands. “What do I owe the pleasure?” It was an effort to keep my tone pleasant.

Her latest boy toy sauntered up to the counter, not much older than me. I’d be twenty-one in just over a month, so at least he was legal. As he gave me an appraising grin, I fought to keep my smile in place. My teeth ground together.

“Avery, why do I need an excuse to see my daughter?” The voice was my mother’s, but the delivery had changed over the past couple of years—evidence of her speech coaches. Always trying to fit in with the upper class.

Yet another thing taken from me. I kept silent.

“Have you been getting my gifts?” Her perfectly arched eyebrow lifted ever so slightly.

“Oh, yes.” I pressed my teeth together so hard I was sure to chip a tooth.

I was almost six feet tall with curves, two traits I’d hated for most of my teenage years. I’d hunched to appear shorter, worn baggy hoodies despite our humid Michigan summers and avoided high heels at all costs. But Daddy loved me no matter my height or my weight. I’d always been his little girl, the mascot at his poker games, the one by his side watching football every Sunday. Mother, on the other hand, had always been quick to swap my chips for a celery stick or my sandwich for a salad.

Ironically, I had Mother to thank for helping me accept my body. If she hadn’t dragged me on that book tour during my senior year of high school, I never would have met Trish, her assistant. Trish taught me the art of embracing my curves, accenting my height and highlighting my best features. Because of her, I fell in love with makeup, my own brand of armor.

Mother cleared her throat, bringing me to the present. “Which gift was your favorite?”

The ‘gifts’ she spoke of were her castaways. Designers clamored to be promoted on her show or worn by her, so they sent her tokens, samples of their upcoming lines in hopes that something would strike her fancy.

I got the leftovers.

“Oh, the Hermes scarf was very colorful.” And the only thing that fit.

As a curvy girl, I was a size sixteen on a good day and I had no problem with it. For most designers, I wasn’t even close to fitting in their ‘sample-size’ range, although a select few included my size in the very upper end of their spectrum. Most of what they sent was meant for Mother or one of her models.

“Yes, dear, that scarf was adorable.” She gave me a placating smile.

My taste was yet another thing never quite up to her standards. Even if I wore every article of clothing she gave me, I still wouldn’t please her. Instead, I prided myself in not using any of her gifts. I stored them in a rented warehouse, to be used for charity functions or to auction off for a good cause. Occasionally, I dipped into them for my own fun, but never for day-to-day expenses. I was determined to pave my own way, with the exception of her much-needed assistance with tuition.

Mother drummed her nails on the counter, a sign she was gearing up for the real reason for her visit.

“Can I get you something?” I gestured to the menu behind me.

Boy Toy beamed, rattling off his order as well as Mother’s standard frappuccino like a well-trained puppy. It took some effort to hold in the words ‘Good boy’. I wondered if his butt would wag.

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