Page 2 of Wish For Me

“Seeing as how it’s mostly my family out there, yes, Peter. I’m aware of the guest list.”

“You made enough to feed at least double that.” To my great dismay, he strolls into the kitchen, all casual and confident in his usual uniform of black jeans, black-shirt, and black jacket. I swear to god he’s been wearing the same all-black get-up since kindergarten, and we’re seniors in high school now. As usual, I ignore the way the green of his eyes pops against the dark outfit and his pale skin.

Also in the top five of things I hate about this guy? How freaking gorgeous he is. Eyes like that just shouldn’t be wasted on such an unbelievable asshole.

He picks up one of the tarts and it’s all I can do not to smack it right out of his hand. “What’s the occasion, anyhow?”

I ball my hands into fists against my side so I don’t follow through on the urge to remove my tart from his stupid, elegant, disgustingly-talented fingers. The last thing I want is for him to know how worked up I am by his mere presence.

“It’s my oldest sister’s boyfriend’s birthday,” I say through gritted teeth.

“The wannabe country singer or the cable TV star?”

“The fashion designer,” I say pointedly. Yes, my sister Everly also stars in a reality show about her fashion line and the boutique she runs with my cousins Fox and Alexandria. But I didn’t miss the judgmental little tone in his voice when he called her a cable TV star. And I refuse to even acknowledge the “wannabe” comment about Santana.

All three of my sisters are the most talented, most driven, most amazing people that I know, in addition to being the funniest, kindest, and most loyal. If he thinks I’m going to let him say shit about any of them without breaking his face, he’s mistaken.

“And why does your fashion designer sister need her whole family here for her boyfriend’s birthday? Shouldn’t that be something the two of them celebrate together? Without an army of Ransomes present?”

“It’s really none of your business.” I doubt he would understand the significance of such a special night, anyhow—he’d have to possess a heart for that. “The bigger question is why areyouhere? Last I checked your grandfather is in the main kitchen—maybe you should go bother him.”

Peter ignores me, peering at a tray of perfectly shaped petit fours. “Seriously, Vega,” he says, shaking his head. “There are like, twenty different desserts here. Is that mille-feuille?”

“Yes. And it’s delicious.”

He shakes his head, that smirk firmly in place “Macarons. Creme brûlée. Tarte tatin. Let me guess—someone’s daddy sent her to Paris for winter break to visit the fancy patisseries.”

It’s my turn to smirk. “That sounds awfully judgmental coming from a person named Pierre Henri Dumont.”

This time the smirk falls completely off his face as his jaw clenches, hard. I fight back the urge to shimmy again. He’s pissed and I couldn’t be happier about it. Peter really,reallydoesn’t like to be called by his full French name.

An alarm sounds on my phone and I curse. That’s my half hour warning. “Can you please leave? I have spun sugar decorations to make and I don’t really need you distracting me.”

“Spun sugar decorations?” He laughs. “I amshockedto see that you are, once again, doing way too much.”

“It’s not too much,” I snap.

See? Totally unable to act unaffected when he’s bothering me. It doesn’t help that he always knows the exact sore spots to hit. My supposed habit of doing too much has bitten me in the ass before, as he well knows.

Seeing as how he’s the one that used that habit to his advantage to humiliate me on national television when we were kids.

Peter Dumont and I go way back. Unfortunately.

“What are these sugar decorations going on, anyhow?” he asks, looking around the kitchen. “Let me guess, you made…” I see it on his face the minute his eyes land on the tower of cream puffs. His jaw actually drops open a little. “A croquembouche?”

I tense up. If he criticizes that, I might just lose it. That thing took hours, and the stress of it all stole at least a year off my life. There are about five different steps where it could have gone terribly wrong. First, I had to make a seemingly endless amount of choux pastries, all of them filled with delicate sweet pastry cream. Then the caramel needed to be heated to exactly the right consistency. Putting the tower together required a steady hand and careful planning of the structure and layers.

But the end effect is worth the headache—there’s a reason this particular dessert is often served at French weddings. It looks kick-ass. And it’s going to taste even better.

“Jesus, Vega,” he says, walking over to it. “When did you start baking for this party?”

I snort out a laugh. “I’ve been baking all week.” Longer than that, really, but the last thing I feel like right now is another lecture on how I’m ‘too much.’ Was it silly to put so much effort into what is, essentially, a family dinner? Maybe. Did I really need to write and re-write the menu three different times? Probably not.

But I don’t really care. If ever there was a time to be extra, it’s tonight. Everly and Bodhi deserve it.

“How are you decorating it?” Peter asks, still looking at the towering croquembouche. “Honestly, you probably don’t even need to,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “That caramel glaze is perfect.” I can’t help the little rush of pride at those words. It’s not my first croquembouche, but it’s by far the biggest one I’ve made. And I really went all out on the flavors, too. It might just be one of the better things I’ve ever baked.

And that’s a pretty high bar, if I do say so myself.