Page 51 of Wish For Me

Huh. Peter always gives off such a chill, above-it-all vibe. It’s hard to imagine him worrying about anything.

“So you drove all the way here in the middle of the night and found your cake still standing,” he continues, and I nod. “And then you decided that since you were here, you might as well freak the fuck out and make another dozen sugar flowers. Is that the gist of it?”

I should say something snappy—or at least tell him to fuck off—but there’s a glint in his eye that has me smiling for some reason. “Yeah. That’s pretty much how it went.”

He shakes his head, but he looks amused. “Okay. Show me this cake. Then I can tell you whether or not it needs more flowers.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You seriously think I’m going to trust you to be honest about it?”

He looks offended. “When have I ever lied to you about one of your desserts?”

Okay, he kind of has a point. I may have hated the guy with the fire of a thousand suns ever since that stupid baking show, but I can’t say that he’s ever been anything but brutally honest about my work. We don’t always agree on everything—his flavor profiles are criminally uninspired and he has an annoying tendency of always playing it safe—but I can’t deny he knows what he’s talking about.

“Fine.” I march over to the walk-in, trying to ignore the nerves in my stomach. There’s no reason I should care what Peter thinks. I know the cake is gorgeous. I am definitely not going to cry later if he makes a crack about it being too fancy or not classy enough.

He follows me into the cooler and I brace myself for whatever is going to come out of his mouth. “The bottom tier is vanilla sponge. Then we have a lemon and poppyseed, red velvet, and a double chocolate mocha.”

He doesn’t respond, just stares at the cake. Admittedly, it’s a little bit over the top, but it’s not every day my sister gets married. A riot of brightly colored sugar flowers in every hue cascades down over four tiers of thick, stark white buttercream. Alternating tiers are decorated with delicate lace piping work, adding texture, while the others have been smoothed to a flawless sheen. More flowers surround the base. The overall effect is bright and colorful while still being elegant—just like Everly.

“You think it’s too much,” I say flatly, when he still hasn’t responded after several endless moments. “What is it? Too colorful? Too loud? Too many frills?”

“It’s perfect.”

I stare at him, certain I’ve misheard. “What?”

“Perfect.” He finally turns away from the cake to face me. “It’s perfect, Vega.”

I open my mouth, then shut it again. I have no idea how to respond to that. His criticism would have crushed me, but at least it would feel familiar. At least I would have been able to issue a sharp comeback or tell him to fuck off. But this just feels weird. I have no idea what to do with the approving look in his eyes.

“Thank you,” I finally manage, and it comes out almost like a question.

He nods once, his posture a little rigid, like he’s as uncomfortable as I am, uncertain how to handle this unfamiliar turn of events. Then he relaxes all at once, a smirk crossing his face.

“Let me guess—you filled it with a ginger and black pepper ganache.”

I burst out laughing. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Olive oil and rosemary?”

“No, but that sounds delicious.”

He shakes his head, still smirking. I realize belatedly that we’re standing there smiling at each other like idiots, and hurriedly turn back to the cake.

“I was thinking it might need more pansies,” I say. “Does it feel unbalanced? Too many roses?”

“I don’t think so. Except…”

I would expect to tense up, waiting for him to say something dickish. Instead, I find myself almost eager to hear what suggestions he might have.

“Except?” I press.

“It might be a little flat at the top. This stream of flowers just kind of starts here, see? What if you piled some of them up here on the top? Add more depth.”

I peer at the cake. I can see where he’s coming from. “I think you’re right. But the problem is the cake topper. It takes up almost the entire surface of this tier.” Everly had the cutest little clay statues made of her and Bodhi for the top of the cake.

Peter’s face lights up, the way it does when he’s excited about whatever dessert he’s working on. “What if you wentabovethe top tier? You could attach more flowers with wire and have them rising up off the top.”

I immediately know he’s right. Bringing the flowers up over the top of the cake would add balance—and look really damn cool.