A few pink and orange streaks were smudged across the dark sky now. Cass crouched down and took off her canvas running shoes, holding them in one hand as she walked across the sand toward the pounding surf. Soon, she was close enough that the waves touched her toes. A moment later, the bottom of her pants were soaked by a frothing wave. A surfer was out, and Cass watched as the woman waited for the right wave. It reminded her of Charlie, who had inherited their Dad’s love of surfing. Cass had never tried it, but it looked like fun. Cass longed to stay and watch to see if the surfer managed to catch the perfect wave, but realized, after a quick glance at her watch, that she was out of time.

When Cass and Charlie had met up at the gas station, Cass had been alarmed at the dark circles under her sister’s eyes, at the uncharacteristic paleness to her normally California-glowing face. Charlie had insisted the accident at work was no big deal. Cass had prodded for more details, but her sister had brushed her off, saying they had more pressing things to worry about. Like, how Cass was going to play Charlie on set and ensure she’d be chosen to host the network’s next-up show, Bake My Day.

As she ran across the sand back toward the car, Cass tried to focus on the instructions Charlie had given. “My assistant, Sydney, is amazing,” her sister had said. “She rolls with any recipes I give her. You won’t need to bake today, but I’ve left tomorrow’s recipe for you in my kitchen at the apartment—and will e-mail the file with the rest of the recipes to you and to Sydney, so you’ll have those all laid out. You know my friend Priya in makeup—I told her about the swap. Figured it was important for you to have an ally.” Then, Charlie had frowned. “Austin makes my life—which is now your life—miserable just for fun. Ignore him as much as you can, and stay in your lane. I believe in you.”

Back at the car Cass shoved her damp, sandy feet into her running shoes and started the car. Her nerves were kicking in now. She was an accomplished pastry chef in her own right—but the way she baked was nowhere near as polished as Charlie’s method. She barely ever measured at the bakery now, while Charlie approached every recipe with laser-focused precision. In part, it was the difference in their culinary training—Cass had gone to business school rather than culinary school and had been home-taught baking skills by her parents—but it also spoke to the difference in their ambitions. Charlie wanted to hit the big time; Cass was happiest on her home turf.

Suddenly, the idea of playing her sister’s part seemed foolish. What if she screwed up, and everyone realized she wasn’t, in fact, the illustrious chef Charlie Goodwin?

“You have a good memory, you’re an incredible baker, and you’re quick on your feet,” her sister had said when Cass briefly mentioned her apprehension at the gas station. “Plus, we’re identical. No one on set will have any reason to think anything is up.”