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What had started as a prank had snowballed into one of my favorite things about Mac and Gerald’s relationship. Gerald—world-renowned sculptor with great taste himself—knew that my brother loathed anything kitschy or trendy. As a gag nod to the whole “wood present” thing, he’d gifted Mac the first sign for their fifth anniversary. Not realizing it was a joke, and not wanting to upset his partner, Mac had gone a little overboard when thanking him for the thoughtful present. Incensed that Mac dared think the gift had been serious, Gerald had doubled down by gifting him new signs for every ensuing special occasion. They’d been at a standoff for years, each one waiting for the other to admit they hated the signs, but both too pigheaded to be the first to cave. The result was a gorgeous, tastefully decorated home… accented by the kitschiest signs imaginable.

“Where?” I asked, bracing for the reply.

“Above the front door,” Mac said, his shoulders slumped forward in defeat. “It’s a good thing he’s so cute,” he grumbled.

“And that he’s kind and funny, and an amazing partner,” I reminded him. “And that he has more artistic talent in his pinkie finger than everyone else we know and then some.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. All that too. And I love him more than life itself. Yada yada yada.”

“You could always…” I started.

“Don’t even think of saying it. I would rather eat an entire fish pie than admit I know they’re a joke, and you know it.”

We both shuddered at the thought and burst out laughing when our eyes met. Fish pie was one of our aunt’s specialties. I strongly suspected it was also a prank that had gone wrong decades earlier.

“You know, one of those paint-your-own sign places isn’t such a bad idea,” I said, looking around the shop with a critical eye. “I could…”

“Don’t you dare!” Mac cried. “I will absolutely disown you,” he sputtered, waggling a finger in my face.

I laughed at his outrage. “You can’t disown me. I’m not your heir. But, fine, I shall defer to your delicate sensibilities and refrain from opening a wee sign shop.”

“Remember when we were kids, and we talked about what we would be when we grew up?” he asked a bit hesitantly.

“Of course.” I frowned, wondering where he was going.

“No matter how often we had that conversation, your answer never wavered.”

My body stiffened. “Your point being?” I asked, keeping my voice as level as possible. “Because if I recall, you always said you were going to be a superhero.”

Mac reached for my hand, and, after hesitating an instant, I let him take it.

“You came alive when you described the cookie shop you’d open when you were a grown-up. Honestly, it’s a little bit why we talked about it so often.”

“It is?” I asked, my frown deepening.

Mac smiled softly, keeping his gaze fixed on our entwined hands. “Yeah, I loved watching that light inside you flare to life.” He waited a beat, then asked the question I was dreading. “All joking aside, why are we even discussing anything else, Meg?”

My heart jumped into my throat as a million answers, each more reasonable than the last, popped into my head. None louder than the voice screaming, “Yes!” inside my heart.

“You know why not,” I said after a long silence.

“Because our mother once told you they weren’t any good?” he asked, the incredulous arch in his brow punctuating his words needlessly.

I frowned, annoyed that I had to explain something so patently obvious to me.

“It’s not a pragmatic option. I can’t support myself on cookies alone. It takes time to hand-decorate cookies. Even if I set up an assembly line, I can only make so many cookies in an hour. There’s just no way to make it profitable.”

“If that were true, no one would ever sell cookies,” Mac protested.

“Those who do charge a fortune for each individual cookie. They’re like works of art,” I cried. “I could never charge what they do. My cookies are nothing special.”

“Meg! Just because Mom thinks they’re not special doesn’t mean they’re not,” Mac said. “I rave about them to everyone.”

“You do not,” I said, shoving him half-heartedly, the sudden swell of love in my chest taking the heat out of the gesture.

I’d been proud of my cookies the first time I’d presented one to our mother, confident that my talent would outweigh the lack of magic in my creations. The way her face had lit up when I’d handed her the cookie had filled me with such pride and excitement, I thought I might burst. And then she’d taken a bite and realized I hadn’t chosen a cute way to tell her my powers had manifested. My dream of becoming a professional cookie-baker had died right along with the light in my mother’s eyes when she threw out the cookie that I’d spent hours decorating to look like her favorite flower.

“Do too,” he responded, shoving me back. “I have a long list of potential clients for you, if you ever go into business.”