Page 92 of The Contract Marriage

“Win the lottery?”

“Hmm… Sort of.”

“Not going to give me a hint?”

Her grin broadens.

“Totally not fair. I gave you a hint on your birthday.”

She scoffs. “Just one!”

“Mathematically speaking, one is infinitely better than none.”

She rolls her eyes. “Uh-huh. Fine. It’s about…” She narrows her eyes in thought.

I prop my chin in my hand and study her as she purses and unpurses her lips. She’s cute when she’s trying to be diabolical. Can’t believe she’s mine.

“I might need a bigger car,” she says finally.

“Like…a pickup truck?”

She frowns. “No. What would I do with that?”

I shrug. “Drive like a badass?”

The timer goes off.

“It’s ready!” She hops over to the kitchen, then stops and places her hands on her hips. She glares at the still-hot pastry like a general about to face an enemy battalion. “I haven’t done this in ages.”

“I’m sure it’ll taste fine.”

“No, I mean the flipping. It has to be done right. Mom made it look so easy.” She grabs a huge serving plate and places it over the pan, then inhales deeply. “One. Two. Three!” She flips it fast, then stops. “What do you think?” Her eyes are bright as she waits for my response.

“Probably perfect. Now show me,” I urge, playing the eager audience.

She lifts the pan a little, peeks inside, then bursts out laughing.

“What?”

“It’s crooked.” She takes the pan completely off and slides it into the sink.

“Hmm. You seem to have created the leaning tarte tatin of Pisa.”

Her shoulders shake.

“I’m sure it’ll taste great,” I say.

“Hopefully.” She crosses her fingers, her eyes still sparkling with laughter.

“I’ll be the guinea pig.” I grab a fork and take a bite. The apple chunks are so gooey and thick, they’re almost like jam. The buttery aftertaste adds a richness that mutes the acidity from the fruit. “Wow. This is good.” I take another bite, nodding to myself. “Don’t tell Frederich, but I think yours is better than his.”

“No way!” She samples it, then her eyes widen. “Oh wow. This is just like how Mom’s tasted!”

I smile and kiss her temple. Although I’ll never know what it’s like to have a mom’s love, Olivia experienced it and misses it every day. I’m glad recreating her tarte tatin helps her relive some happy moments. Her brilliant grin is the best way to end the week. “You’ve replicated her recipe.”

“I did,” she says, half in awe. “Wow.”

I head to the wine cellar and pull out a bottle of Château d’Yquem. “Time to celebrate.”