We cook side by side, arguing over measurements, stealing ingredients, nudging each other out of the way. At one point, Wynter flicks flour at me.
I freeze. She grins. “Don’t you dare—”
I grab a handful and toss it straight back at her. She squeals, ducking, laughing as it dusts her shoulder. “Childish,” she says.
“You started it.”
“Because you’re annoying.”
“And yet here I am, winning.”
“In your dreams.”
We line up the plates on the counter.
Two stacks of pancakes. Two plates of eggs and bacon.
“Moment of truth,” I say, folding my arms.
Right on cue, the front door opens and Catherine walks in with Sebastian, both of them stopping when they take in the scene.
“Well,” Catherine says slowly, “this looks . . . interesting.”
Sebastian’s face lights up. “Wynter!” Followed by, “Pancakes!”
“Perfect timing,” I say. “You’re judging.”
Wynter nods. “Be honest.”
Sebastian climbs onto a stool, completely serious now as he picks up a fork. Catherine follows, cutting a piece from each stack.
There’s a long, dramatic pause where they exchange knowing looks like they’ve done this a million times before. Sebastian takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. Then another from mine.
He nods like he’s making a very important decision. “They’re both good,” he says.
“That’s not helpful,” I mutter.
Catherine smiles, taking another bite before placing her fork down.
“Well,” she says, glancing at Sebastian, “I think we agree.”
Sebastian grins. “Wynter wins.”
Wynter gasps, clapping her hands together. “Yes!”
“Robbery,” I say, shaking my head.
“You’re just a sore loser,” she shoots back, beaming.
Sebastian grabs another pancake. “These are the best.”
“See?” Wynter says smugly.
I glance at the chef, who’s trying—and failing—not to laugh.
“Traitor,” I mutter.
Sebastian’s tucked into my side, with the photo album spread across both our laps.