We’re the good daughters, according to our mother.

Meanwhile Lisbetta is spending the holidays at her boarding school in Switzerland, against direct orders from our parents. And Sophia—well, Sophie has always been contrary. If you say go right, she goes left. The dress code for the Christmas gala was formalwear in black, white, gold, and red.

Naturally Sophie showed up in clashing hot pink.

After Daphne goes upstairs, I pull out a professional stand mixer.

In minutes I’m covered in sugar and stray flecks of whipped cream. At least they don’t show up against the black and white lace covering my floor-length gown.

I use a spatula to move the mixture into a piping bag.

Footsteps approach me from behind. They’re not the soft tap of my sister’s heels. Or the whisper of my mother’s gown against the floor. They’re the hard, sure steps of a man.

“Don’t bother talking me out of it,” I say to my brother Leo. He doesn’t understand why I work so hard to keep our mother happy, and he’s probably here to drag me upstairs.

“I would never dream of it,” comes a low, masculine rumble.

I whirl in surprise, sending sprays of white cream across crisp black dress pants. The man wearing them is handsome, well-built, and, unfortunately, amused at my expense. “Oh my god,” I breathe.

“Don’t tell me they have you slaving away in the kitchen? That’s grim, even for a Morelli.” Finn Hughes leans back against a counter and crosses his arms, unconcerned with the whipped cream that’s setting into what’s no doubt a ten-thousand-dollar bespoke tuxedo.

I grab a dish towel and bend down to wipe the cream from him in fast, efficient strokes. I’m trying not to touch him inappropriately, but I can feel his heat through the fabric. His powerful thighs form a backdrop to my frantic wipes. “What are you even doing down here? This is the service kitchen.”

He looks down and raises an eyebrow. “I imagined you kneeling at my feet many times, but there was never whipped cream involved. A lack of imagination on my part, to be sure.”

My cheeks burn. “I can’t send you back upstairs looking like this.”

“Absolutely not. People would think we’d gotten up to something.” His arms are still crossed, as if he’s unconcerned. As if he’s enjoying this. “If only they were right.”

I stand and throw up my hands. “If you don’t care about your tux, I don’t know why I’m bothering.”

He glances back at the throngs of servers. “There isn’t anyone else who could help you?”

“They’re busy. Besides, this is my mother’s recipe. If it’s not right…”

I don’t have to finish the sentence. My parents aren’t known for being flexible. Finn Hughes knows that. “And Eva Morelli is the good dutiful daughter.”