Page 3 of Wish For Me

“Spun sugar,” I answer. “Really delicate strands draped all around the pastry.” It’s actually a pretty simple technique, but it’s going to look freaking fantastic, so long as I can get my sugar strands thin enough.

Which means I should really get to work. Not stand here talking to my nemesis.

But Peter is nodding thoughtfully and I can’t help but think he looks a little impressed. Not that I care, of course. I have zero desire to impress him. I definitely don’t feel all warm and squishy inside right now. Not at all.

His mouth tips up at the corner, but it doesn’t look as smirky as it usually does. “How’d you flavor the filling?” He asks.

“Vanilla and bourbon.”

He waits, that smile growing. “And?”

I sigh. “Peruvian chili powder.”

He barks out a laugh. “Vega.”

“It’s very subtle!” I argue. “It just adds a little kick and cuts the sweetness a bit. It pairs really nicely with the caramel.”

He shakes his head, his lips doing that twitchy thing again. There’s something about his smile that makes me feel…weird. Kind of off-balanced. And a little too warm. For once Peter Dumont doesn’t look smirky or arrogant. He almost looks a little…fond.

But that’s ridiculous. This guy does not have fond feelings for me. He hates me as much as I hate him.

All of which is beside the point. My sister and Bodhi are going to be here in less than half an hour. I need to get my sugar spun and placed and supervise the wait staff in getting all these treats out to the dessert table. I don’t have time to stand here feeling like there are butterflies in my stomach just because Peter decided to not be a total judgmental asshole for ten minutes.

“Anyway,” I say pointedly. “I really do need to get finished here—what are you doing?”

Peter has slipped his jacket off and is beginning to roll up his sleeves. “Helping,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I gape at him. “Helping with what?”

He gestures at the counters covered with desserts. “All of this.” And then, probably realizing that he’s bordering on nice right now—which I’m pretty sure there’s some kind of law against—he shakes his head. “Just like you to get in over your head. How were you planning on finishing it in time?”

I splutter. Whatever warmth I’d felt a moment ago is quickly shifting into a red-hot fire of rage in my chest. “I’m perfectly on time, you ass. The only thing I have to do is the sugar, which would have melted if I’d done it any sooner—which you know, you total ass.”

He smirks. “You said ass twice.”

“Because you’re a double ass!”

Okay, not my finest insult, but that’s what this jerk does to me.

“I think you have more to do than the sugar.”

“I do not—” then I let out a little gasp when he holds up the torch I’d dropped when he surprised me. “The creme brûlée!”

“All done, are you?”

I should get a prize for not clawing his smug face right now.

“You distracted me!” My eyes narrow as my anger spikes. “You probably did it on purpose! You wanted to waste my time and ruin—”

“Good Lord, Vega. Don’t you ever get tired of your own drama?”

Before I can do more than splutter in rage, he turns on the torch. “If I wanted to ruin your desserts, I wouldn’t be offering to help right now, would I?”

“I don’t need your help.”

He ignores me. “You take care of that sugar,” he calls over the hissing sound of the torch. “I’ll do this.”

I’m tempted to grab it out of his hand—preferably burning him in the process—but a quick glance at the clock tells me I’m running out of time. Bodhi has planned this entire night to the smallest detail, and this is all supposed to be on the table by the time everyone is done with dinner.