Cake Off at the Cat Cafe

Book 0: A Cat Café Romance

by Rachel Rowlands

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

READERS LOVE RACHEL ROWLANDS:

'Fantastic read. Enjoyed this book so much it was read in one sitting, couldn't put it down' Reader Review 5 stars

'A lovely story. Read it' Reader Review 5 stars

Release date: March 27, 2025

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

Chapter 1

Clem stood over the cake, her hands gripping the steel table either side so tightly her knuckles paled. She was nervous, although a faint smile ghosted her lips in spite of that. The cake had turned out well: two tiers of pale turquoise icing, a ball of fake yarn and edible string spinning around the middle tier. She’d made miniature versions of the cat café’s cats to decorate it; they danced around the edges of the tiers and curled, slept, and played along the icing. Emmie’s name was written in silver letters on top, and ‘happy birthday’ swerved around the rim. The cake was finished off with an iced white bow.

When they cut into it, they’d find a rich and decadent chocolate centre with mint frosting, perfectly fluffy and creamy. Emmie had a fondness for mint chocolate, so Clem had been determined to use it in her cake. She’d taste-tested everything herself, and it would taste like mint chocolate ice cream, the frosting melting onto the tongue. Perfect for summer, which was just around the corner. But would Emmie like it? Would the others, when they presented it to her? Clem clutched the steel table harder. They were going out to a restaurant – Clem, and her colleagues at Catpurrcino, the cat café where she worked as a baker. Clem rarely went to work social events – her nerves always held her back, like a pair of reins being clutched by a nervous rider – but she couldn’t exactly say no to this one, when she’d made the birthday cake.

Sylvie, the owner of Catpurrcino, bustled into the kitchen, her heels clack-clacking on the tiled floor and announcing her presence.

‘Can I see it now, Clem?’ she asked.

When Clem turned, Sylvie was standing on tiptoe to try to see her creation, her auburn hair shining in the overhead lighting. Instead of her trademark Catpurrcino apron decorated with chubby cats, Sylvie was wearing a long black dress and shiny Mary Jane heels, her throat adorned with a silver necklace, and her hair scooped up in an elaborate bun.

‘I promise I won’t look if you aren’t ready yet!’ Sylvie continued, pretending to hide her eyes but peeking. ‘But we should get going soon—’

Clem laughed. ‘No need to peek. You can look properly. It’s done now.’

Sylvie shifted her hands, and Clem moved to one side so she could see the cake.

Sylvie gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. ‘Oh, Clem! It’s amazing!’ She hurried over to the cake to observe it from every angle. She pointed at a tiny re-creation of a black cat sitting proudly on the second tier with his tail curled around him. ‘You’ve even added Salem’s little diamond shape on his forehead!’

‘Of course. It’s what makes him unique.’

‘It’s perfect! Adorable, and so beautifully done. She’ll love it.’

‘I hope so.’

‘You didn’t have to go to all this trouble, love.’ Sylvie tilted her head to the side. ‘You bake all the time here for work!’

‘I don’t mind. I love baking. And Emmie did a lot to make me feel welcome here when I first started, so . . .’ Clem smiled hesitantly. Emmie was Sylvie’s niece; she worked at Catpurrcino as a barista and lived above the café in one of Sylvie’s flats.

Sylvie reached out and hugged Clem unexpectedly, and Clem squeezed her back after a beat of hesitation. She was glad Sylvie liked the cake as much as she did. But the sweet scent of Sylvie’s perfume had her stomach tangling, setting off her nerves again. She drew back from Sylvie and looked down at her apron, patterned with cartoonish cats.

‘I should get changed,’ said Clem. ‘We’re leaving soon?’

‘Yes, go ahead. There’s no one in the staffroom.’

‘Let me box up the cake first.’

Once Sylvie had helped her successfully navigate the cake into a box, and a bag large enough to hold it, Clem hurried from the kitchen and weaved her way into the staffroom, closing the door behind her.

It was bright and fun in here, like a kid’s nursery room, Clem had always thought: a table set with colourful plastic chairs, a duck-egg-blue fridge covered in magnets shaped like cat paws, and framed photos of the cats adorning the walls. Once, as a joke, Sylvie had added an ‘employee of the week’ section with a photograph of Binx, his big green eyes looking up at the camera and his soot-grey body in the loaf position. It had remained there ever since because everyone found it so funny.

Tugging off her apron and hairnet, Clem quickly dressed in the clothes she’d brought for Emmie’s birthday meal: one of her favourite brown dresses patterned with little orange foxes and a pair of flat shoes. She ran a brush through her hair and fringe and checked her appearance in the mirror by the kitchenette. A dash of nude lipstick and she was done, hooking her bag over her shoulder.

Clem paused by the doorway, pulling in a deep breath to gather herself.

Just be yourself, her mum had said, when she’d started working here a couple of years ago. Clem was trying, but it was hard to do sometimes, even now, when her head was filled with buzzing static at the mere thought of stepping outside of her comfort zone.

She met Sylvie in the main café room. Sunshine was spilling through the wide front windows of Catpurrcino, buttery yellow, splashing itself over the cat towers pushed up against the walls and the wooden tables scattered around. Thomas and Lilian were snoozing on a squashy cream armchair, Thomas’s huge ginger bulk almost pushing Lilian off the edge, though she didn’t seem to mind – her head was tipped sideways as she slept, exposing a fuzzy white chin. This room was large, with a drinks station, counter, and chalkboard menu. Rows of glass cake displays were set up on the countertop, filled with some of Clem’s cat-shaped, pastel-coloured biscuits. A door off to the side led into a cosier room, the Cat Lounge, and there were steps leading up to the second café floor.

‘Emmie’s on her way to the restaurant with Jared,’ Sylvie told Clem, tapping away on her phone before shoving it back into her purse. ‘You grab the cake and I’ll hold all the gates and doors open.’

‘Okay,’ said Clem, carefully lifting the bag that contained the cake. ‘Thanks.’

‘Shoo, mischief!’ Sylvie said. She waved Salem away, who had made a beeline for Clem’s ankles, and he retreated to a nearby chair to watch them, black tail swishing.

The café had a triple-door system to make sure no cats escaped – Sylvie held open the latched gate for Clem. They navigated their way through, and through another door, and into the small gift shop and reception area, which was quiet and empty since the café was closed. When they finally passed the huge poster of the café’s rules and stepped out into the street, Clem felt that swimming sensation again. It was Friday evening, and so the restaurant was bound to be busy. She imagined the eyes on their table when they sang Emmie happy birthday, the attention her cake might get, and she wished, stupidly, that she had a reason to go home. To curl up with her cat, Misha, and a Netflix show and a cup of tea, where she felt safe.

It was April, not long after Easter, and the cherry tree outside the café was in full, glorious bloom, its petals spilling a pink dusting onto the road and pavements like the frosting of a cake.

Everything is going to be fine, she told herself, trying to turn her worried thoughts around, like she’d been taught. No one is going to judge me. She tried to focus on the rustling of the cherry blossom tree, the soft petals whispering, like it was comforting her.

Their taxi was pulling up across the road, slowing to a crawl by the kerb.

‘Come on, love,’ Sylvie called, already glancing both ways to cross the street, some loose pink petals falling onto her shoulders. She dusted them off. ‘You’ll have to be careful with the cake in your lap so it doesn’t tip sideways!’

*

The restaurant was, as Clem had been expecting, extremely busy. There were only a few restaurants in Oakside that weren’t pubs, and so this place was a popular spot for both locals and the tourists and hikers who visited Cumbria year-round. It was large enough for big groups – and there were more than a few of those this evening. The noise when they stepped over the threshold was like a jolt to the eardrums. Nearby tables were filled with people eating and drinking, waitstaff hurrying to and fro with plates and trays of cold drinks. Clem clenched onto the cake bag, following Sylvie as one of the staff escorted them to their table. She kept repeating her mantra, though her body had already tensed, inching towards a fight-or-flight response. Everything is going to be fine.

They were taken through an archway into a wide space, where a table sat beneath an array of foliage, fake flowers and paper lanterns set off by a vibrant green light. Emmie was already there with her boyfriend Jared, and she leaped to her feet to greet them, enveloping Sylvie in a hug. Emmie had her light-brown hair curled into ringlets, and Jared had pulled his back into a smart ponytail. He waved at Clem and she returned the gesture.

Clem scanned the room; the tables either side of them were full to bursting, and it was a squeeze in here. A waiter rushed by, nearly knocking into Clem’s bag and dashing off an apology before hurrying away to the kitchens. She set the cake bag down on their table and squeezed into a high-backed seat, feeling a tightness in her chest that she tried to ignore.

‘What’s that? It’s big,’ Emmie said, leaning over to squeeze Clem’s shoulder because she couldn’t get through the chairs to hug her.

Clem opened her mouth to reply, but Sylvie spoke first: ‘When everyone’s here, we’ll show you, won’t we, Clem?’

Sylvie beamed down at Clem and took the seat opposite Emmie.

Clem nodded, grateful for the distraction – maybe if she talked, she wouldn’t think so hard, wouldn’t notice the roaring of laughter coming from a nearby table and the way it made her jaw clench. ‘Have you had a nice birthday, Emmie?’ she asked her.

‘Oh, lovely, thanks!’ Emmie shot Jared a smile. ‘Jared made me breakfast in bed – poached eggs. I’m terrible at them, but his are always perfect. Perks of being with a former chef.’ She gave an affectionate eye-roll, and Jared squeezed her hand across the table.

‘Did you get any nice presents?’ said Clem. Talking was good; talking helped take her mind off the nerves.

‘Ooh yes, a new sticker machine, some nice pens for my illustrations—’

The table behind them roared with laughter, making Clem jump, one man pounding the table with his fist.

Relax, she told herself. They’re only laughing. Something she seriously needed to do more of, if her brain would only let her. They’re not laughing at you. Relax. Enjoy yourself. Have fun. That was what she was here for. She painted on a smile, did some deep breathing, keeping her hands gripped together in her lap.

The rest of the staff filtered into the restaurant: Faye, who worked part-time at the café while attending university here in Cumbria, and another recently hired barista Clem didn’t know very well yet, Matt – who was so tall his head almost touched the fake foliage hanging over their heads. He grinned at Clem as he took a seat next to her. Kaitlyn had arrived too; she looked after the reception and gift shop. She waved at Clem and sat on the other side of the table. The only people who were missing were Miles and Sophie, their cat caretakers – both of them had plans and couldn’t make it.

Clem fidgeted with her napkin as she watched everyone exchanging greetings and small talk. When a waitress came to take their orders, she asked for a glass of white wine with lemonade and went for the least messy food item on the menu.

Before the waitress could leave, Sylvie beckoned to her, cupping her hands around her mouth. When the waitress leaned down, Sylvie whispered something in her ear. The woman nodded, whipped the cake bag from the table and took it away.

When the food eventually came, it was delicious. Clem focused on the taste of each bite, feeling comforted now her belly was being filled with rice and vegetable spring rolls. Matt was chattering away to her about the café book club that he helped run with Sylvie.

‘We’re doing a book about a homeless man who befriended a cat next,’ Matt was saying enthusiastically. ‘Sylvie told me about it and I read it so quickly – she never did it for book club so we thought we’d get everyone to read it. It really shows how animals can help us through tough times . . .’

Now, cats, Clem could talk about. It was probably why the cat café had been the one job she’d been able to stick at. Tuning out the rest of the room, she nodded. ‘There was one about a cat and dog with a special bond, too – a true story. I can’t remember the title. I’d have to look it up . . .’

Clem took a swig of her wine and lemonade, the sharp twang hitting the back of her throat. They were quiet, both sipping at their drinks, the rest of the group talking around them.

‘You didn’t have anyone to come with tonight?’ Matt asked her, and glanced across the table at Emmie and Jared, who were sharing another affectionate hand-squeeze atop the table. ‘Or do you have someone to go home to?’

Clem shook her head. ‘No, it’s just me.’

She absolutely wasn’t going to add that the ‘someone’ she had to go home to was her mother, because she still lived at home in her mum’s cottage in her mid-twenties. So far, she had avoided her colleagues knowing anything about her living situation – and she intended to keep it that way, if she could, though word might get around on the Oakside grapevine soon enough.

‘Same here.’ Matt sighed, lifting his beer and swirling the remaining liquid in the bottom. ‘Just cats and books for now. Probably more trouble than it’s worth anyway, eh?’ He drained the glass in one gulp and winked at her. ‘Cats are better than people.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Clem, clinking her glass against his.

His words remained with Clem like a persistent echo. Faye hadn’t brought anyone with her either, but Clem knew she was seeing someone at uni.

If Clem did meet someone, what would they think of her, living with her mum at twenty-five? Would they look down on her? When she was younger, twenty-five had seemed so mature, a whole lifetime into the future. She’d had this image of herself being married with a child by this age, which was laughable to her now. She still felt like a child herself, and not ready to cope with those kinds of responsibilities.

Her thoughts were interrupted by singing breaking out around the table, quiet at first and growing louder as everyone else joined in. Happy birthday to you . . . Clem caught on and joined in the song, her voice catching when she saw her cake had been brought out by the waitstaff, a few lit candles stuck carefully in the top.

They cheered and clapped, and Emmie squealed with delight when the cake was placed in front of her. When she blew out the candles and the laughter and singing subsided, she turned to them all, her eyes shining.

‘This cake – it’s amazing,’ she said. ‘Clem! Did you . . . ?’

Sylvie turned to Clem, a wide smile on her face. ‘Yes, it was our very own Clem! She made it for you. I was going to hire someone – I figured she’d be sick of baking and not want to work in her free time, but she insisted.’

Clem smiled, a pinprick glow of pride in her chest spreading as everyone looked at her in awe. ‘I never get sick of baking,’ she said honestly. ‘I enjoyed making it. And you deserve it; you work so hard.’

‘Clem, thank you,’ said Emmie. ‘It’s almost too pretty to eat.’

‘Right?’ said Jared. ‘And look how accurate the cats are!’ He pointed at the iced figure of Salem and the white diamond shape on his forehead.

‘Well, you don’t have to eat it straight away,’ said Clem, ‘but if you want to taste the mint chocolate filling . . .’

‘Mint chocolate?’ Emmie stared at her, and examined the cake, as if looking for evidence of the minty-ness. ‘Clem, seriously, it’s a dream – thank you.’

‘You could start a cake business with this level of talent,’ Kaitlyn agreed. ‘My kids would kill for one of these on their birthdays.’

‘I’d like to someday,’ said Clem, her cheeks warm. Her whole body now enveloped in a happy glow, the pinprick having spread to a wave, washing over her. This was why she baked. Not only to see the creation come to life – the puzzle of getting everything right, the ingredients coming together – but to see other people experience what she’d made, the joy it brought to them.

‘Speaking of talent,’ said Sylvie. ‘I’d been meaning to ask you something, Clem.’

‘What is it?’

‘Have you heard of Whisked Away?’

‘The online baking show?’

Clem had seen the clips and watched a couple of episodes – she posted short videos of her own creations online too, and there was plenty of talk about Whisked Away in her circles there. It was set up by a man who made his living online as a baking influencer. The baking competition pitted small businesses against each other for prize money. She hadn’t known Sylvie was aware of it.

‘That’s the one. It’s coming here, to the Lake District,’ Sylvie explained.

‘You’re kidding.’

‘We’ve been getting tagged in the announcement for days – people suggesting we enter. And I thought . . . well, you have so much talent, love. I think you’d do well and could represent Catpurrcino as part of the contest.’

‘You want me to enter?’ Clem said, her breath hitching.

‘Yes. There’s a £100,000 reward. Half goes to the winning baker and half to the small business. The contest is done in pairs, with you doing the baking and me supervising on behalf of the business – I’m sure you already know if you’ve seen it. We could make some upgrades to make Catpurrcino more accessible. You could use your portion for whatever you like.’

Equal parts excitement and dread seized Clem. A whirling excitement because . . . what an opportunity. It could change her life. She could plan a baking business, like she’d always dreamed of, maybe study again, pay for some business courses to learn the ropes. And . . . move out of her mum’s cottage.

But . . . going to a restaurant with her colleagues had been a monumental effort. How could she go on a baking show that would be put online for hundreds of thousands of people to see? That would be filmed? What if I got into the contest and messed it all up? She tried to turn the thought around again, spinning it the other way, reversing the anxiety-led thinking. What if I didn’t mess it up? What if I did well? But the thought didn’t feel as authentic as the anxious one.

‘I mean . . . it’s popular. There are loads more talented bakers than me so I doubt I’d be picked . . .’ Clem fumbled, because Sylvie was waiting for her to say something. And she didn’t want to share her real feelings in front of everyone.

‘You need to give yourself more credit,’ Sylvie said. ‘You are incredibly talented!’

Before Clem could say anything else, the rowdy table from before were getting up to leave, having ordered more drinks after their main meal and dessert. The tightness of the space between tables meant Clem had to tuck her chair in slightly to let a particularly large man pass.

‘Thanks, love,’ he grunted. He paused mid-way through squeezing past her chair, glancing down. ‘Nice dress! Foxes! They’re vermin, but at least they kill the rats, eh?’

He roared with laughter, clapping her shoulder with a horribly warm hand, making Clem’s neck feel hot. As he went by, his foot caught on Matt’s chair leg as he attempted to manoeuvre it out of the way. The man stumbled, struggling to straighten himself in the small gap.

And somehow, the leftover beer in the man’s glass ended up all over Clem’s front, wetness pooling over the foxes on her dress. His laughter was still echoing in her ears. Ha, ha, ha, like water dripping from the roof of a cave.

The sudden, sticky coating and wetness made the anxiety rise inside her like a dragon ready to belch flames. It clawed at her throat, made it tighten until she couldn’t find oxygen.

She needed out of this tight space – and fast.

Chapter 2

The man was apologising profusely as he squeezed away past Clem’s seat. The smell of the beer was overpowering, climbing her nostrils. Matt was trying to help her mop up the mess, throwing napkins at her and shouting down the table for more. ‘Don’t worry, Clem, we’ll sort you out!’ he was saying. The noise, the activity, the attention, the overwhelming curveball Sylvie had thrown her way – she had become like a particularly crumbly cake, ready to disintegrate beneath someone’s fingers.

When the other group had finally gone, and she’d held it together long enough to let them pass, Clem scraped her chair back and mumbled, ‘Bathroom.’

She snatched up her bag and jacket from her chair, and darted away from the table so quickly she nearly barrelled into a waitress carrying two plates of hot, steaming noodles. The toilets were through the other room, and up a set of wooden stairs. She hurried past more rows of filled tables, keeping her head down, trying to breathe even though the air felt cloying and thick.

When she burst inside, the toilets were mercifully empty – and clean. She splashed water on her dress with shaking hands, hoping to erase the smell of booze, rubbing over one of the little orange foxes. All that did was remind her of the booming, sarcastic laughter and the man’s comments, grating against her eardrums. Nice dress! Foxes! They’re vermin, but at least they kill the rats, eh?

He was joking, she tried to tell herself. But it was only bringing her back to that time, with her friend Genie, the laughter ringing in her ears at her expense. It was like someone was holding her in a tight fist.

Positioning her dress under the hand dryer only made her feel hotter and sicklier, and she suddenly wished she hadn’t eaten as much as she had. Oh no, please don’t be sick, please. All she could think about was home, and her cat Misha, and her cosy, comfortable bedroom.

The door to the toilets burst open, and Clem kept her back to it, not wanting a stranger to see her trembling hands, her lack of composure. The cacophony from the restaurant flooded in: noisy conversation, children crying, the clatter of knives and forks on plates, drinks being set down. It set her teeth on edge.

As the heat and roar of the hand dryer petered out, a tentative voice said, ‘Clem? Are you okay?’

She knew that voice. And she really didn’t want to turn around – this was so embarrassing – but she drew back her shoulders and tried to paste on a normal expression, even if it did come out as more of a grimace. Clem turned to find Emmie standing behind her, a worried frown on her face.

‘I’m okay,’ she said. Her voice was an empty shell, giving her away, and a clamp was fastened around her chest, trapping in her breath.

‘You sure? I saw what happened.’

‘Just . . . the smell . . .’ Clem gestured down, at the damp patch where the beer had spilled on her dress, still visible. She attempted a deep breath but she could still smell it, as if it were trying to claw its way into her nose. A lump rose, hard and painful, in her throat. She didn’t want to fall apart here in front of Emmie, least of all on her birthday. This was meant to be a celebration.

‘Here,’ said Emmie. Clem hadn’t noticed it right away, but she’d brought her little star-shaped handbag with her, hooked into the crook of her arm. Emmie pulled open the zip. . .