I smile, warmth blooming in my chest at their compliments. Nothing makes me happier than feeding my loved ones. “Thank you. It was nothing fancy.”
“It was perfect,” Rhett says, raising his glass of water. “My grandmother was a pretty decent cook, too. But not like this.” He motions to his empty plate with something like pride. “However, she loved to bake. Her cherry pie was legendary.” He hums like he can taste it all over again. “Perfectly tart. Crust so flaky you could hear it crack when you cut into it.”
“Cherry pie?” Oli makes a face like someone suggests he eat raw liver. “Nah. That’s a filler pie. You only eat cherry when nothing else is available.”
Rhett’s mouth falls open ever so slightly, before saying, “That’s sacrilege.”
“Hard disagree,” Myrick chimes in, resting his elbow on the table and looking as smug as ever. “You want a real pie, you go blueberry. Juicy. Rich. Beautiful color. None of that cling-to-your-teeth red goop.”
“Blueberry stains your soul,” Rhett mutters. “And your shirts.” He points to Myrick’s pressed pink polo.
“Key lime,” Oli announces, grinning. “You all sound like a bunch of retired grandmas. Key lime is crisp, clean, no nonsense. It’s got attitude.”
“You’re describing pie,” Myrick says, flatly, “not your dating profile.”
That earns a snort from Rhett, and even I laugh softly. Oli raises both hands in mock surrender, still grinning.
“That’s fine,” he says. “Y’all can keep your old man pies. More key lime for me.”
Rhett laughs softly, taking a small sip of his water. When his eyes meet Oli’s, they both smile, small and sweet. The affection between them is unmistakable now, warmer and more natural than before. It took time to grow, but they both look so comfortable with each other now.
“Who doesn’t like blueberries?” Myrick grumbles, shaking his head.
But then Charlie, who’s been mostly quiet, looks up from his glass with a calm, matter-of-fact tone. “You’re all wrong.”
We all turn toward the omega.
He shrugs, a tiny smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Apple pie is the only one worth eating.”
There’s a chorus of protests, but I can’t hear any of them.
Everything inside my head has stopped.
There’s a distant ringing in my ears, and my vision goes blurry before vivid images flash in my mind.
I can feel the soft dough in my hands. The ache in my fingers from rolling it out just right. The careful way I weaved the lattice across the top. The scent of cinnamon wafting from the oven, warm and heavy, sweet in a way that used to make me feel safe—until it didn’t…until everything went incredibly wrong.
My stomach churns and my throat tightens. For the briefest second, I feel like I’m going to throw up.
“Autry?” Myrick says my name and I force a smile—fast, bright, perfect. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, yes,” I say, widening my smile to the point it hurts.
“What’s your favorite pie?” Charlie asks, sipping his glass of iced tea.
“Oh,” I let out a nervous laugh. “I don’t like pies. I’m not big into sweets.”
Myrick cuts a look at me like I’ve just said the weirdest thing he’s ever heard. “Except breakfast,” he says, looking at me like it’s a question. “Didn’t you say you love a really sweet breakfast?”
Shit.
I laugh a little too quickly. “You’re right. Breakfast has to be sweet.” I roll my eyes like it’s obvious. “I’m not big into pie.”
Rhett says something about me being crazy, but I can’t hear him. I’m too focused on getting the hell out of here so I can panic in private.
I stand and grab a few empty plates. Thankfully, no one notices the tremor in my hands. Then I slip away from the dining room, before anyone can offer to help—though that doesn't last long.
Footsteps quickly move behind me.Oli.
