He nodded once. “Done. Next Sunday, I’ll be the best bought date you ever had.”

I was elated, and a little freaked because what if he was right? What if a guy my aunt bought for me at a charity bachelor auction really was the best date I ever had?

3

ASTRID

Saturday

“Yes, Mother. I will have the cake done on time.”

I had my cell squeezed between my shoulder and my ear as I changed piping nozzles, then began to add a border of buttercream to the top tier of the cake I was finishing. Mary, the woman who worked for me part time, came into the kitchen and rolled her eyes at my half of the conversation. She’d been working for me for a year and knew my family well. Knew of them since they’d never once come into the bakery. They didn’t come to The Bend, preferring to stay in their little rich and crazy bubble in Cutthroat.

“Do you think you can create the flowers we talked about?” she asked. “I emailed you a photo of them.”

“I got the—”

I heard fumbling, then my sister. “It’s crucial they match the bridal bouquet.”

Taking a deep breath, I paused in my piping, not wanting my frustration at Bridezilla to mess up my work. “I know, Amy. You’ve told me several times.”

I couldn’t miss the huff. “Well, I just want it to be perfect.”

I put the piping bag down on the worktable, grabbed my cell so I didn’t get a crick in my neck. “It will be perfect,” I countered. My work was never less than that. I had pride in my business, in the products I delivered.

My older sister was exceptional at passive aggressiveness. I hadn’t gone to her offering my services to make a four-tiered lemon poppyseed wedding cake. She and my mother had chosen me. Because I’d do it for free most likely. My parents and sister were rich enough to host a two-hundred-person wedding, but cheap enough to nickel and dime their own family member, then question her abilities.

“Looking forward to seeing it on Friday,” she replied.

I stilled. “Friday? I was going to bring it Saturday afternoon before the rehearsal dinner.”

“I want to see it before the bachelorette party so there’s time in case you have to fix it.”

Gritting my teeth, I glanced at Mary. “What bachelorette party?” I asked Amy.

Mary rolled her eyes.

“I didn’t tell you about it?”

No, she hadn’t told me about it, which meant she had never intended to invite me. We weren’t close, never had been. Her friends had been just that, hers. But I was her sister and at a minimum, she should have figured people would question her as to why I wasn’t there. What other people thought—besides me—was important to her.