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She raised her brows in a convincingly guileless expression and licked a bit of gooey frosting from her thumb. “Within the context of tonight’s birthday party, I knew someone would be offering me birthday cake. So, I was prepared for the question.”
Her voice annoyed him.
Her voice enthralled him.
God, he was a masochist, but the thrill of having a conversation with her again overrode his sense of self-preservation. He countered, “There are some situations where surprise is inherent to the conversation at hand, and advance notice isn’t a realistic expectation.”
“I suppose. But when committing to something as important as which kind ofcaketo have, a bit of advance discussion might help one adjust to the idea of—you know—having the cake. Especially if you’d be eating that kind of cake for the rest of your life. And maybe, other kinds of cake had given you food poisoning in the past.” She forked an obnoxiously big piece into her mouth and tilted her head, eyes innocently wide. “Don’t you agree?” Her voice was muffled by cheeks full of cake.
“I’m not playing your game,” he said.
She swallowed. “What game?”
“This feels a lot like the ‘how can we fuck with Harry today’ game.”
She dabbed her mouth with a napkin, and her posture and expression were suddenly serious. “My reluctance in giving you an answer that day wasn’t any less valid than your insistence on having one, Harry.”
Harry.
So, he was Harry again. The sound of her saying it sliced through him like a blade.
Mal slowly leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers. “What—if I may—the fuck are you two talking about?”
“Language,” Gia called out, while Charlotte simultaneously exclaimed “Language, Daddy!” to Mal, triggering an eruption of giggles from the other children, and a belly laugh from Duncan.
Harry felt like he was the starring character in some demented screwball comedy.
“The cake is phenomenal as usual, my love,” Dad said to Ma. “I have a recipe for salted honey pie I’m planning to put on the B&B menu.”
“I will not be partaking of your honey pie, Pops,” Duncan said. “If I wanted some of that, I’d eat—”
“Duncan, for Christ’s sake,” Dad cut him off. “Not at the table.”
“Do not blaspheme under my roof, William,” Ma said.
Arden grimaced. “Can we at least come up with a different name for it?”
“Fresh honey!” Maren leaned forward to look down the table at Rowan. “Didn’t we talk about keeping beehives on the property this past summer?”
“I love bees. That would be fun,” Rowan said.
“I want fresh honey for my peach-and-jalapeño scones, too. Everything but the dry ingredients will come from right here on the farm.”
“We’re calling this a farm now?” Mercy asked.
“It needs a name,” Nate said. He was on his third piece of cake. “A farmy name.”
“I loved those heirloom jalapeños you grew for me, Rosie. And there’s a nice area for a peach orchard in the pasture beside the round barn,” Dad said.
“You’reallcalling her Rosie now?” Harry grumbled, but nobody acknowledged him.
“You can call me that too, if you like,” Rowan said. He ignored it.
Frankie piped up, “Scones are made with eggs, though. Won’t you need some chickens?”
“Chickens!” the kids cried.
Harry’s head spun.
