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The owner announces, “From left to right, we have snickerdoodle, strawberry cream, and chocolate salted caramel. We’re open to any combination of filling, frosting, and cake, so keep that in mind as you taste test. And if you can’t agree on a flavor, we do have opposites-attract options as well that would incorporate the bride and groom’s separate choices into a tiered masterpiece. The world is, as they say, quite entirely your oyster.”

Bouncing in my seat, I cut into the chocolate salted caramel first, bring the bite to my lips, and—wind up with the morsel brutally stolen by the man I used to love.

From across the table, August declares, “He’s choosing violence!” and jabs her finger at her brother, whose mouth is slipping off my fork. Priming a strawberry on her own tiny golden catapult, she lines up a shot. “Bombs away.”

“Don’t you dare.” Mr. Winslow stops her before she can fling the fruit.

“He cannot be allowed to continue his tyranny. Father, prithee have mercy. I fall upon the merits of thine grace.”

Amid the political negotiations, Wynnter scoops a larger bite of the cake off his plate for me, and I giggle as I accept it, melting into the sheer bliss.

“Oh my,” my mother murmurs, breaking into my visions of sweet reprieve. “That’s a very velvety chocolate.”

Wynnter grunts, nodding. “Is.”

Already well on my way to a sugar coma, I supply, “I think this is going to be a difficult decision.”

Again, Wynnter nods and scoops another bite for me. “Those are the best kind.”

As I accept his offering, I can’t help but agree.

Chapter 19

◼

Cookie-cutter houses filled with unique families.

Wynnter

December convinced her mother to stick around for cookie decoration at my parents’ house, which is definitely a good sign. A hopeful one. Despite the woman’s less-than-approving once-over of the house when she got here, Mrs. Rosier has proven somewhat amicable tonight.

I appreciate that.

A lot.

For December’s sake.

Studious, I focus all my attention on the gingerbread man I’m decorating even though the idea of eating another sweet any time within the next week has my stomach churning. After half a million bites of cake, my lovely Dece decided on a chocolate raspberry, and I decided I’d be ordering her chocolate raspberry cakes periodically from now on because the little thing her face did when she bit into her sample of it unraveled my atoms.

Blissful delight should always kiss December’s features.

Always.

Someone knocks into my back while I’m attempting to make tassels for my gingerbread man’s scarf. Frosting skids through his entire outfit, leaving a mess. “What the—” I swear.

“Oops.” August looks down, meeting my eyes when I turn. “Sorry, Wynn…”

My shoulders hunch, and I glare at my sister. “What are you doing? Why aren’t you decorating a cookie?”

“I finished. We all finished.” A sheer pale purple material fills her hands, and it occurs to me I’ve been working incredibly hard on this stupid cookie for who knows how long. Desperate to not police December’s interactions tonight, I’ve thrown myself into this insipid task, because the last thing her mother probably needs to see is me hovering over her daughter all the time. Since there are plenty of people here right now who won’t let the woman treat her poorly, I’m trying to vibe and chill.

I wasn’t trying to hyperfocus on creating Gucci frosting clothes.

Peering past my sister, I find Alister at the other end of the stretching fabric, somewhere beyond the living room in the bedroom hall. I grunt. “Oh. That came.” That being one of the wedding decorations. Planting my elbow on the table, I let my attention—for the first time in over an hour—veer toward December, who’s seated on the couch between our mothers, holding a book in her lap.

All three women are smiling, even if one of the smiles seems a little tight. Hopefully the tension isn’t due to the disgust of being in a commoner’s home. Hopefully it’s just the Botox abuse. Probably it’s just the Botox abuse…

“What are they doing?” I ask.