Page 1 of Wish For Me

ONE

VEGA

“Moment of truth,” I mutter, eying the tower of dough, sugar, and caramel in front of me. A sudden vision of the entire thing crashing down dances through my mind and I shudder.

As if in response to the horrifying turn of my thoughts, my phone dings. I peek at the screen, gloved-hands too messy to pick it up, and see a message from Violet, my cousin and one of my best friends in the world.

Vi:Periodic reminder that you’re a kick-ass baker and your sister is going to love everything you make.

I shake my head,smiling. The girl knows me.

“You got this,” I say, my voice louder now, more firm. “You’re Vega Freaking Ransome.”

I pick up the final cream puff and dip it in the hot pan of melted caramel. Taking one last deep breath, I place the puff carefully on top of the others. I’m almost afraid to let go, but I force my fingers to release the pastry, holding my breath.

It stays exactly where it’s supposed to, at the very top of the massive pyramid of caramel glazed cream puffs. I take a step back, allowing myself to take it all in, and can’t help but allow myself a little shimmy. It looks freaking amazing. A worthy centerpiece for the celebration of one of the biggest days in my sister’s life.

It will look even better with the final decoration in place, but I can’t do that until right before it goes out to the party. In the meantime, there’s still plenty to do. I give my masterpiece one final proud smile and turn back to the central work table, taking stock of my remaining tasks.

I’ve been given free rein for the night over the catering kitchen at La Table d’Henri. While the main kitchen is bustling on a Friday night—I can hear the clangs of pots and pans and shouts of the sous-chefs from here—this space is all mine. For now.

And I’ve taken full advantage of that. Pretty much every surface is covered in my baked goods. I go over each item, mentally ticking off my to-do list. Tarts, done. Salted caramel mousse, done. Petit fours, done, but need to be plated. I shoot a quick glance at the clock. It’s almost time. My adrenaline kicks up a notch but I force down the nerves and ignore the rapid pounding of my chest.

Instead of worrying about all the things that could go wrong, I pick up the kitchen torch and approach the tray of creme brûlée. This part is both fun and nerve-racking. There’s something exciting about wielding a fire-shooting wand. But it’s important not to get carried away—there’s a fine line between perfectly browned, crackly, caramelized sugar and a burnt mess.

“Don’t you need a license to operate that thing?”

I let out a little yelp, nearly dropping the torch on my foot. I’m scowling before I even look up to see the guy standing in the doorway. I already know who it is.

“What are you doing here?”

Peter Dumont gives me that annoying as hell smirk he seems to save just for me, leaning casually against the doorway to the kitchen.

“You’re aware my grandparents own this restaurant, yes?”

Of course I’m aware of who owns this restaurant. Peter’s grandfather is the one who lent me his catering kitchen while my family rented out his private room for our party. Henri has always been sweet as peaches to me—it honestly seems impossible that the cretin in front of me could even be related to the kindly old man with the twinkling eyes and the goat cheese soufflé recipe that could make a person cry with joy.

I make my eyes as wide as possible, adopting an expression of mock-surprise. “They do?Yourgrandparents? I had no idea. It’s not like you’ve been bragging about it since we were in kindergarten.”

His smirk only grows, sending a rush of annoyance through me. There are many, many things that I detest about this guy, but my inability to have even the slightest effect on him tops the list.

Or, at least, the appearance of my inability to have an effect on him. I know that I get under his skin just as easily as he gets under mine. He just happens to be really good at appearing unruffled. Unconcerned. A skill I’ve never been able to replicate myself.

I blame my mother. She’s not known as one of the world’s biggest drama queens for nothing.

“Don’t let me stop you,” Peter says, gesturing at the little ramekins of custard. “I’d love to see your method.”

I roll my eyes. “And I’d love it if you leave.”

He nods. “I make you nervous. Totally understandable.”

God, I hate him.

I straighten my shoulders. “You don’t make me nervous. Nauseous, sure. Annoyed, absolutely. But I don’t care enough about you to get nervous.” I give him my sweetest grin. “See, to be nervous, I’d have to give a shit what you think.”

A little rush of victory goes through me as his jaw clenches, the only sign I’m going to get that he’s annoyed. It’s good enough for me, though. Peter is usually a vault, locking down any emotion except for the ever-present arrogance.

“What is all of this?” he asks, shooting a disdainful glance at the covered countertops. “Jesus, Vega. You’re aware that there are less than a hundred people out there, yes?”