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As it turned out, harder than I expected.

Apparently, Princess Palollipop was a cartoon, which was something I really wished I’d known before I promised a six-year-old I’d get the real Palollipop for her birthday.

She lived in a cloud castle, and loved candy and fluffy bunny slippers and a peach-colored otter named, of all things, Gananagins.

But I supposed Disney World got away with supplying three-dimensional people to portray their animated princesses, so after Julia signed the contract and left, taking a box of the remaining samples with her, I put on my proverbial girl-boss hat and got to work.

An internet search gave me a list of people to contact, which I started on immediately. Out of the six people I called, two were already booked for the day of Andi’s party, three didn’t do Palollipop, and one was eight and a half months pregnant.

“I can try,” she said, sounding slightly out of breath. “But I can’t guarantee I won’t go into labor before the party. Or during the party, for that matter.”

I thanked her for considering it but politely declined. I did not want a future review that included the word “afterbirth.”

I let my head fall onto the table in front of me, the wrought iron cool under my forehead.

I counted to ten, giving myself a few seconds to fret, and then I sat up again.

I’d only called six people. There had to be more entertainers in the area.

I would just have to keep calling people until I found someone with a poufy pink dress who was available for Andi’s party. That was all.

I gathered the plates from the sampling and carried them through the swinging door into the back. I set them down by the sink, stripped off my bedazzled apron—making a mental note to find something a little more upscale for the party—and then started washing the dishes.

It was all going to be okay, I told myself as I worked.

I was going to locate the perfect Princess Palollipop, and Andi was going to have an amazing party.

Maybe then some of her friends would want to have their birthday parties at the café, too.

Or Julia could tell her mom friends—I pictured her casually sipping some overpriced wine at the fancy seafood place I still hadn’t tried, gushing about how much fun Andi’s party was while her similarly elegant friends made notes on their phones.

It could happen!

The slight scraping sound at the window behind me made me smile, a little flare of warmth shooting through me.

There was only one person who entered the café through that window—Horst. My.

..well, as I’d told Roger, not my boyfriend.

But whatever he was to me, he was sexy as hell.

And while I would have really appreciated it if he would just, you know, use the door like a normal person, part of his charm was the fact that he wasn’t like anybody else I knew.

Which meant accepting that he would go on showing up unannounced in my window rather than arranging to see me via text.

“I thought you’d drop in,” I said, rinsing off the last plate. “And I have some very exciting news. I thought you might want to help me celebrate.” I set the plate in the dish rack, grabbed a nearby towel, and began drying my hands as I turned to face him.

Only Horst wasn’t there. The window was empty.

I glanced around, wondering if this was a new trick. Maybe he was hiding somewhere, ready to pop out and surprise me?

But no, there was no one else in the kitchen.

A little shivery feeling ran down my spine, and my arms prickled as goosebumps broke out over my skin. I didn’t feel alone—and not in a comforting way.

Then I heard the smallest of sounds, a tiny scratching noise, and looked toward the window. Horst wasn’t there, no, but there was a small white box sitting on the sill just inside. A small white box with a series of holes punched in the side facing me.

Maybe this was another of Horst’s surprises? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d left a gift for me.

Though, in the past, none of his gifts made noise.

Steeling myself, I walked over to the window and picked up the box. It wasn’t very heavy, though there was definitely something in there. A tag dangled from the top. In blood-red ink, it read, “For the Pied Piper.”

It should have hit me immediately that the gift was for Horst and not from Horst, but I was already reaching for the lid of the box, too eager to see what Horst had left for me on this very important day.

I pulled back the lid and found myself staring into a pair of beady eyes.

It was a rat.

A real, live rat.