I see Hunter outside through the window of the back door.

Leaning against my car. Huge, imposing legs crossed at the ankles, comfortably tight in his jeans.

He was a distraction earlier, while I’d been baking pies, and he's a bigger one now.

Ben senses he’s out there for very different reasons. I smile, forgetting how flustered having this lion of a man in close range makes me.

The kid did a great job today. He’s smart, a quick learner, and goes all out.

Even when he was up to his elbows in dish soap for hours, he never whined once. I put him to work rolling out pie crusts in between dish washing sessions. He took to it like a bird that's just found its wings.

The smile on his face was contagious. Ben even has my father laughing and joking. Dad does that with the customers all the time – he’s our best salesman – but never with the employees.

That scares me.

Maybe it pissed me off a little because I’m sure if my parents are being this nice to Ben, it's because they think Hunter is duty bound to take me to Rochelle’s wedding. She blew in here earlier, gushing with delight at how they'd finally found me a date, and now her precious table settings will be an even number.

God forbid that she might have to set one table of seven instead of eight.

Like no one else there will be single, or dateless, or divorced?

No, they won’t, outside a couple extended family members. She’d uninvite them. She's that vain.

Everything, everything, right down to the number of table settings has to be perfect.

And God forgive any last minute no shows. They'll surely be banished to hell forever for ruining her day.

“Ben, please tell your father to come in,” Mother says. “There’s no reason for Mr. Forsythe to stand out in the cold.”

“No,” I say. “There’s no need. It’s after two thirty, and Ben's done for the day. He should wash up and go right out to meet him.”

Ben tosses a furrowed brow between the two of us, unsure who to listen to.

My heart goes out to him. It’s like being stuck between a rock and a hard place. One I shouldn't be putting him in.

Mother may be the owner, but I'm the kitchen boss. His boss.

“You did great today, Ben.” I grab his coat off the hook by the door. “I’ll see you Friday morning bright and early.”

Mother senses his nervousness over who to obey and for once does the right thing. “Wendy's right, dear. It’s past your quitting time. You’ve had an excellent first day and we all look forward to seeing you again.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Agnes,” Ben says. “For the opportunity and the job.” He nods at me. “Thank you, too, Wendy. I learned a lot today.”

I toss him his jacket. “You’re welcome. Hope you like working here.”

“Totally!” It comes out in such a bark of enthusiasm, I almost laugh.

I give him a nod. “Good. See you Friday.”

He scoots out the door. I can’t help but watch as he jogs to Hunter’s SUV and throws himself into the passenger seat. They exchange some hurried words, but Hunter’s eyes linger on the door more than his son after the first few seconds.

God. If I'm not careful, these two are going to make me stupid. They're like two dogs I’d like to drag home and take care of. But I won’t. I can’t.

I don’t have my own life in order enough to take care of someone else. Besides, if they were dogs, they’d be purebred, out-of-my-league expensive canines that would never need to be taken home by anyone. They’d already have their homes. Their place.

Which they do. Hunter has a gorgeous home.

He should have a gorgeous, attentive, high class woman someday, too. One who fits like a neat cog in his family machine. One who's smarter and classier than me.

My stomach curdles as I turn to my mother, looking down. “It's not happening.”

“What won’t happen?” she asks.

“Hunter Forsythe taking me to Rochelle’s wedding. It's insane. I'm not doing it, Mom.” I march past her. Quitting time doesn’t happen for me like it does everyone else. I still have four dozen cinnamon rolls to cut apart and set in pans to rise for tomorrow morning, half for a few last minute pickups, and the rest for our own family Thanksgiving.

I sense Mother staring, trying to figure out what to say. Maybe she doesn't hit me with her usual smarmy command because she senses the deep disappointment in my voice.

“Just don't,” I tell her before she can find anything to say. “And no, I don’t care if it'll make her place setting an odd number or not.”

I hate Black Friday. Hate it with a passion.

It's pure hell for almost everyone in retail, except maybe salesmen who are also masochists.

Our morning rush is usually a few dozen people grabbing coffee and a roll or croissant on their way to work. Today, it's hundreds of women with coupons falling out of their purses as they gather in restless clusters around the seating areas, planning their day of shopping like a group of generals organizing a raid on the enemy army.

As soon as one group leaves, another enters, right through closing time. And damn near everybody asks what our Black Friday special is. We have one and would've sold out if not for having a full staff scrambling about furiously, fixing peppermint mochas and serving up heaping caramel rolls.

By the time evening hits, I'm exhausted. Physically and mentally.

Mentally because for the last eight hours, I've wanted to stop everything and shout, “Online shopping, people! Haven't you heard of it?”

I don't, of course. Because besides making me look like a crazy woman, it'd gravely hurt business, but Lordy.

Lordy, these women and husbands and children are nuts.

“Aren’t you leaving, too?” Ben asks, shrugging on his coat.

“Not yet.” I rub at a twinge in my back. “I have to get everything ready for tomorrow morning.”

“Do you want me to stay and help?”

“No, but thanks. Got it under control here.” I usually love this time alone. After everyone else has left and I’m here all by myself, doing prep work for the next morning, or during the slower times of the year, experimenting. Coming up with new flavors or designs.

This is my time to create. And even though I feel like I've been flattened by a train, it might be just the ticket to bringing me back to life.

“I don’t mind. I really don’t have anything else going on, Wendy.”

“Except to get some rest, so you can do it all over again tomorrow.” I smile when I say it. He's worked his butt off today.

“Oh. Right. Will it be this busy tomorrow?”

“Nah. Black Friday's always the worst. Now we’ll get the Christmas shoppers for the next few weeks. Everybody and their dog looking for sweet treats to pass out to neighbors, friends, and co-workers, but who don’t have the time to bake.” I squeeze his upper arm. “Seriously, rest up, boy. I’m going to need young muscle tomorrow. Rolling out cookie dough is hard work.”

I wish I were exaggerating. Ben smiles, blissfully unaware of the workout that's waiting for him.

“No way. Worse than pie dough?”

“About the same,” I admit. “But we sell way more cookies than we do pies. It all adds up.”

He nods and glances toward the now quiet front room of the bakery.

I see a hint of something on his face, but I'm not sure if it’s thoughtfulness, or yearning, or something else. “Something on your mind?”

“Oh, just thinking...could I buy one of those pumpkin pies? There are still two left.”

“Why?” He's already eaten several slices during lunch. The last thing I want him to do is get hooked on sweets working here. “You can have more for free tomorrow. No need to spend your pay here like it's the company store.”

He shook his head. “Not me. For my Dad. We didn’t have any pie yesterday.”

A tickle races up my spine. “What did you eat yesterday?”

“Dad made prime rib, turkey, all the fixings. He's good when he has time to cook from scratch. They were really tasty, but after, he said he wished he’d have thought to buy a pie.”

Sighing, I start to move, trying very hard not to think what Hunter Forsythe might look like carving up a fresh turkey, his huge muscles moving, tattoos flexing, slicing through a new bird as easy as butter.

So I walk to the front and box up a pie. “Here. It’s on the house, Ben. A bonus for a hard second day.”

He gushes his thanks and then runs out the back door, where I know his father is waiting.

The exact reason I'm careful not to walk close enough to the door to see out of it. Same old song and dance, whenever Hunter lets him off in the mornings or picks him up later.

I have to tell him the deal is off. Tell him to his face.

Make sure, in no uncertain terms, that he knows he's not taking me to Rochelle’s wedding.

I could do it now.

There's no earthly reason to wait, but somehow, I am waiting.

I tell myself it's because I want Ben settled in here, feeling more comfortable. There’s still time. The wedding isn’t until next week.

Next week.

Crap.

I slide back against an empty chair, letting it hold my weight. I’ll be so freaking glad when this stupid coronation of a wedding is finally over.

I jump a second later, after the office door whooshes opens, and Dad walks out.

“Well, Wendy-girl, we just had our best Black Friday ever. I'm thinking we might have ourselves a new record.”

I give him a thumbs up, wishing I could be more excited. I know I would be, if it weren't for Hunter, Hunter, Hunter on the brain.

Mom is right on his heels. At three o'clock on the dot, she locks the bakery door, then the two of them empty the cash register and close themselves in the office to tally up the day’s sales.

It’s been that way for as long as I can remember.

“It sure was busy,” I say later, after they're done.

“Mm-hmm. No thanks to your Black Friday caramel roll special,” Mom says. “They were not only delicious, the buy two get two free had people busting through the door to buy them by the dozens. Oh, and those peppermint mochas didn't hurt either, even if they were a mess to make.”

“A real door-buster! Maybe we ought to make them permanent menu items.” Dad laughs at his own joke.

So does Mother, swatting him gently in the side. “Oh, Will! Nobody wants peppermint the other eleven months of the year. Perish the thought.”

I'd say tell that to a thousand ice cream shops and big league coffee houses around the country, but it was a miracle Mom even let me talk her into serving up our basic bitch version of a holiday drink.

Sigh.

I should be as happy as they are, considering they wanted to stay in the nineties and pretend free candy canes were fit for a modern Black Friday. I’d taken advantage of a good sale during pecan season just for the special, dousing the rolls with homemade caramel, and now I'm glad the freezer has more room.

Call it skepticism, but I’m wondering why they’d suddenly agreed to the idea I’d been pitching for some time. The last dozen I'd had went down in flames.

Dad holds up the receipt from his old calculator. I swear he’ll never part with that thing, calling it his pride and joy, a relic from the first day Midnight Morning opened. “You know, I think I'll invest some of today’s profit.”

He’s done that as long as I can remember, too. Played the stock market with small increments.

That’s how I was able to extend my college to include studying abroad, with money he’d invested in my name over the years.

“What? Got a hot new tip or something?” I ask nervously, hoping our big day doesn't go up in flames on Wall Street.

“Heck yeah. Landmark Defense Systems,” he says with a grin.

I nod, although I’ve never heard of the company.

He frowns slightly. “It’s on the Nasdaq. Huge military contractor. They make, uh...sensors for tanks and landing craft and all kinds of top secret stuff. Don't you watch Fox Business?”

Not in this lifetime. I shake my head, knowing I'd rather do just about anything than watch stuffy talking heads babbling about the latest roaring bulls and ferocious bears on the market.

“Well, I hope you do your homework,” I tell him.

As if I didn't need another reason to swear off stock chatter, soon we'll have Marco joining the family. Rochelle’s fiancé believes he’s a stock market broker.

He might be. Hell if I know. Or care. Truth is, he’s a spoiled rich kid from Miami who's as full of himself as Rochelle is. Two materialistic peas in a pod. Hungry for money, bling, and status.

Mother shrugs on her coat, getting ready to go to the bank to make the daily deposit. I step around her.

“You do know Landmark is also Hunter’s company?” she asks.

I stop. Shoulders straight. Staring dead ahead. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Before she even says it, I don't think she is.

“Not in the slightest.” Mom’s grin is cool as ice. “Come on, Wendy-girl. Now you're the one pulling my leg, telling me you didn't have a clue.”

I bite my lip. No, I don't know. I don't need to know anything about that man, really, and I'm not sure why it's so hard to believe.

She still doesn’t believe I’m serious about not dragging Hunter to Rochelle’s shenanigan of a wedding, does she?

Yes, I said dragging him. Like a lamb to slaughter. That’s how it'll be for any man I show up there with, which is why I'll be alone. I’m deadly serious about that.

“Be careful,” I say, looking at Dad. “I don't know much about stocks, but I've heard of insider trading.”

“Nah! It’s a free market, Wendy, and all I’ve done is my own research. No big tips from your big date, let me assure you. We're safe and sound.” He pats my shoulder as he walks past me, whistling. “See you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

“Don’t stay too late, Wendy,” Mother calls back, following Dad to the door.

I would respond. Then again, my teeth are clamped together so tight I have to breathe through my nose.

“Oh! And please bring those two pumpkin pies in the display case home tonight,” she says, just before stepping out the door. “Marco loves pumpkin pie. Family dinner at seven. Don’t be late.”

I still don’t respond. And not because the door drifts shut.

Saying anything would be useless.

A tiny smile tugs at my lips. There aren’t two pumpkin pies left anymore, thankfully.

I'm extra happy I gave that pie away to Ben now.

Rochelle and Marco spent Thanksgiving with his family yesterday, and I know that irritated the pants off Mother. She’d hid it from Rochelle, but it was as obvious as a bad sugar substitute in a cookie.

I hadn’t minded Rochelle’s absence. Actually looked forward to an evening of peace and quiet, which hadn’t really happened.

The house was still full of relatives, all fawning over the fine new catch my perfect sis found in Marco. A wealthy businessman. A man with a bright future and more charisma than Casanova.

She was setting herself up for a nice life. A real fine life.

Totally fit for a toy poodle.

A disgusted sigh leaves my chest as my jaw relaxes.

Whatever. It's nothing new. We've been through this a million times before, haven't we?

It’s her life. And if that’s what she wants, Mr. Personality, more power to her.

It would drive me nuts. I’ve heard a dozen times how Marco has zero plans to let Rochelle work after they're married.

Hey, it’s not like she works now. Besides updating the website every now and then.

Shoving aside bitter thoughts that could roll to the apocalypse, I focus on mixing up our standard batch of cinnamon rolls that are extremely boring, but favorites that sell out every morning. Especially Saturdays.

Mrs. Olsen always buys a dozen for her grandkids who drive down to see her every weekend.

That makes me smile, at least. Soon my mind busies itself with many other customers who have been visiting Midnight Morning, some for over twenty-five years. A good chunk of a lifetime.

For all the crap I give my family, we've made something special.

Not everybody has that. Hunter and Ben, for instance, who have everything a person could want in material goods, but they're so light on real, human connections, it hurts my heart.

Be grateful, I remind myself. Then I do it again, taking stock of all my blessings.

Now, I just hope I can keep them, before a certain snarly, elusive, all-too-alpha single dad blows my world to smithereens.

It’s dark out by the time I’m ready to leave. That’s not unusual.

It’s dark by four thirty this time of year. Thanks, Daylight Savings. You'd be the first wish on my monkey paw to go, if I had one.

What's unusual is the SUV parked next to my car. Right in what's becoming Hunter’s usual spot, whenever it's empty, twice a day.

Except...those two visits have already happened for today.

What the hell is he doing here?

I ignore the fire in my cheeks and reach for the remote starter on my keychain, before double-checking the door of the bakery, and then, carrying one pumpkin pie, walk quickly to my little Chevy.

The car is three years old now, but it's still showroom perfect. No thanks to my perfect driving record.

Until last week.

“Do you always work this late, Sugar?” His voice stops me in my tracks.

If I weren't holding the pie, I'd be in full face-palm, rubbing at my eyes, nose, and lips until this sexy, messy beast-man is just a memory.

He'd climbed out of his driver’s door as soon as I’d stepped out of the building, but I’d pretended not to see him.

There’s no use in keeping the charade going, he’ll soon be blocking my path.

So I grit my teeth and say, “It’s not that late.”

“It is to someone who goes into work at five in the morning. That’s a twelve-hour day, last I checked.”

Oh, I'd love to check something of his, all right.

He’s in front of his vehicle, wearing a brown leather jacket today. Real leather.

The cold air wafts the scent in my face, along with that cologne of his that's all sandalwood and musk and raw testosterone. “It’s all part of the job. What do you want, anyway?”

He walks along the front of his SUV to where my car is parked. “Just came to say thanks for the pie you sent home with Ben. It was the best I’ve ever had.”

“Glad you liked it. Thanks. Bye.” I try to turn, cutting this off before it can start, but stop mid-spin.

I have half a mind to give him the pie I’m holding, just to piss off Mother. That would do it.

Rochelle would be beside herself, and I wouldn’t win any brownie points with Marco either, which wouldn’t hurt my feelings at all.

“Ben said it was really busy here today.”

Damn, too slow. He's still talking like we're old friends, totally not two confused, tense, possibly crazy people who are fighting the urge to rip each other's clothes off at the first opportunity.

Or my urge to make a huge ass of myself if he doesn't feel the same way.

“It was. Our best Black Friday to date, supposedly, according to Dad.” I look up, see how he's staring, gluing me in place with a flash of flame-blue eyes.

Concern knits my brows together, wondering why he's really here. “Hey, is something wrong? Is Ben frustrated by his job duties?”

“Just the opposite. He loves this place. I know it’s only been two days, but that kid is flying high as a kite off accomplishment.”

Hunter's unexpected grin is almost enough to knock my socks off. Maybe I smile back.

If he’s truly this happy about Ben, then so am I. I'll even let the not-so-subtle stalker thing go if he leaves it there.

“He's a really hard worker. Must come natural. I know it’s only been a couple days, but I’m going to miss it when he’s not here. He's got it together better than some people twice his age we've hired.”

“He'll miss it, too. Ben's already said that one day a week isn’t going to be enough, and I know he’s not talking money.” His grin fades. “He hasn’t received his first paycheck yet.”

“I hope he’s not disappointed when he gets it.” I watch his face closely, looking for a sign as to what he’s thinking. A kid with the kind of money Ben has access to won't be impressed with a check that won’t even buy one of his sneakers.

“Wendy, do you have time to talk?” His face is serious, stone, but his voice is soft.

“Sure.” I snap my mouth shut, but it’s too late. The word was already out. Had shot out before I had a chance to think about how I should respond.

I pinch my eyes shut a second too long, hating how I missed my chance to say no.

He turns back toward his SUV and pulls open his passenger door. “Climb in. It’s cold out here. Custom heat in this thing that'll fire up in seconds.”

It is cold, so I climb in and set the pie on the wide console so I can rub the chill out of my hands.

Hunter climbs in the driver’s side.

“Okay, so talk. What's going on? Is it Ben?” I ask, growing more concerned, wondering if there's something he's holding close to his chest.

“Depends. Do you have time for a drink?”

“Sure.”

Crap. There I go again, mouth moving faster than my brain. Why, why, why is it so hard with this man?

“A quick one,” I clarify, thankful I have a getaway. “Have to be at my parents' house in an hour. A second Thanksgiving dinner of sorts. My sister and her fiancé couldn’t attend yesterday, so we're catching up with them today.” I shut down again, cursing my motor mouth.

Hunter Forsythe is the last man on Earth I should be telling this to.

“Rochelle really gets on your nerves, doesn’t she?”

Self-loathing over my own attitude churns my stomach. “No. Not usually. I mean, she’s always been self-centered and a diva, but that’s never bothered me before. It was just Rochelle. I’ve lived with her my entire life.” A sigh pushes against my chest. I slowly let it out. “It’s this whole wedding thing. She’s just gone over the edge and it's wearing on everyone.”

He pulls out of the parking space and I glance at my car. It’ll shut off after twenty minutes. That happens often enough when I start it and then find something else keeps me distracted.

“Why’s that? What’s put her over the edge?” he asks.

“Perfection. Fantasy. Hell if I know.”

“You know you're not as different as you think, Sugar. You've got a perfectionist streak of your own.” He glances my way and grins, inviting me to slap him. “I saw your unicorn cake. You worked your sweet butt off making that thing damn near immaculate.”

Holy hell. I don't know what's worse: Hunter Forsythe comparing me to my bride from hell sister, or him calling my butt sweet.

I hold back the urge to violently shut him up when I remember he isn't wrong.

I can’t deny that when it comes to my cakes, I want every detail perfect. “It was worth it. The little girl I made that for brought me a thank you note.”

“I know. I held the bakery door open for her.”

“Did she show you the picture?”

“No.”

“She drew the cake and...honestly? It's kinda adorable.” The little girl was a sweetie, too, and her visit made all the work I’d put into that cake more than worthwhile.

“Are you in the wedding? Sister’s maid of honor?”

I huff out a pained laugh. “Ha, very funny. Nope.”

Those blue eyes glance at me again, more beast than man. So intimidating and so damn beautiful.

Maybe that's why every word seems more intense than it should be when he asks, “Why's that? You turn her down?”

“Because everything has to match perfectly, including the couples, Hunter. She's that much of a control freak. Marco’s brother is his best man. So his brother’s wife is the matron of honor. The groomsmen are his friends and cousins, so their wives or significant others are the bridesmaids.”

I'm getting worked up again. That’s one of the things about this wedding that's always really bugged me. Not that I’m not in it, I couldn't be happier.

More that the whole event is more about Marco and what he wants versus Rochelle. I can't even recognize her as the same girl who always talked about having a simple, possible destination wedding before he gave her that oversized rock.

I think Tolkien himself would be stunned at the power of her engagement ring. She’s turned into a fire-breathing bridezilla, all right, and every other sentence out of her mouth begins with Marco wants.

“But you're still doing the cake, yeah?” His question brings me back to Earth.

“Right.” I sigh at the plainness of the cake. “White. All white. Boring frosting. Blah flowers. Cookie cutter plastic bride and groom on top, per her wishes. It'll be the world's tastiest museum piece.” I shake my head. “The entire wedding is black and white, you know. Marco’s favorite colors. Rochelle even told the guests what color they can wear.”

He lifts a brow while glancing my way. “Damn, Sugar. Better can the orange zoot suit I was planning on, then.”

I grin, praying to everything holy he's joking. And not just because of the obvious mythic zoot suit. Maybe this is a good time to tell him not to bother. Or make him bow out, if I can just get it through his head what kind of Kafkaesque day he's signed up for.

“Black, Hunter. Black only for guests. Her and Marco will be wearing white, and everyone else must wear black.” I nod at his frown. “There were little notes inside her invitations explaining it. In every torturous detail.”

“Fuck me. Is this a funeral or a wedding?”

I shrug, shaking my head. “I’m not sure.”

I’m barely joking. A part of me feels like I lost my sister completely the day she met Marco.

She’d always been self-centered, considered herself a step above the rest of us, but since she’d started dating him...God. She lost any hard-working, humble Agnes roots she might've had.

It’s almost like we're all an embarrassment to her, and she's counting down the hours until she can put in her notice with my parents, and leave Midnight Morning forever.

That’s what really has me irritated. The way she belittles the bakery, everything about it, as if it's not a real business anymore. She never used to before him.

“So you're gonna cave? Show up dressed like a Victorian mourner?”

“Of course,” I answer. “Not like I have much choice.”

“You always have one, babe.”

“I know. I’ve thought about that...but bottom line, she is my sister, and it's her wedding day. I won’t do anything to ruin it for her.” Considering that’s the perfect opening, I add, “Speaking of which...the deal's off, Hunter. Ben has his job. I told Mother you're not taking me to the wedding.”

I glance around, pinching my fingers together, just waiting for him to respond.

I hadn’t paid attention to where he was driving. I'm confused as he pulls into the driveway to his house. I assumed we’d have a drink at a bar somewhere.

“You told your mother?”

“You heard me the first time. You're off the hook. Ben's job is safe, no matter what happens.”

He pulls the SUV into the garage, and as the door slowly lowers, I notice headlights coming up the driveway behind us. Now that the deed is done, and I’ve told him, I just want to go home.

I'm fighting a regret that shouldn't be there. A tiny part of me liked the idea of having a date for the wedding. Of him being my date.

“Look,” I say, a bit nervous since we've just arrived. “About that drink...it's later than I thought. I really need to get back to my car. Have to get this pie to my parents' house and –”

“Okay.” He lifts the pie off the console and climbs out of the driver’s door.

I open my door. “Okay, what? I sort of need a ride back to my car. I can't sprout unicorn wings and fly, you know.”

“I know.” He's so cryptic, eyeballing me with that mysterious smirk on his face. Rather than walking toward the door to the house, he opens one that leads outside and gestures for me to step outside.

Baffled, I step out, and instantly notice another car in the driveway.

It's a freaking limo. Hunter’s hand settles on my back and he gives me a gentle nudge forward.

“Holy...what is this?” I ask, wheeling around to face him. “What's going on?”

“That’s where we're having our drink, Sugar. Did you really think I was taking you to some dive?”

“A limo? We're having drinks in a limo?”

I'm not hyperventilating. I'm not in full panic. I'm not losing it.

“Bingo.” He nods at the driver, who steps out and stands next to an open back door, giving a curt nod. “Evening, Silas.”

“Good evening, Mr. Forsythe.” The man nods at me again. “Miss? Ladies first.”

“This is Wendy Agnes,” Hunter tells him matter-of-factly. “She's famous. The one and only head pastry chef from the Midnight Morning Bakery.”

“Indeed, I have heard of her, sir.” He nods again, smiling. “You did the cupcakes for my little cousin's sweet sixteen last year. They were exquisite. Honored to meet you, Ms. Agnes.”

I don't know what's hanging lower. My purse, which I'm barely clinging onto by the strap, or my jaw as it's dragging on the ground.

What. Is. Going. On?

I can't believe a limo driver knows about my cakes, much less remembers me by name. But I also can't believe I’m about to climb inside an honest-to-God slate-black tinted-window limo right now.

“Hi. Thanks,” I say shyly to the driver as I get inside the car.

I swear there’s more room in here than in my apartment's entire living room. The plush leather seats are definitely softer than my cheap secondhand sofa by a long shot.

Hunter sets the pie on the seat across from us and then sits down beside me.

“What's all this?” I ask as the car starts moving.

“A place we can talk in private.” He reaches over, opens the lid on the backside of the front seat that reveals a mini-bar fully stocked. “What would you like?”

The assortment of choice is a little overwhelming. It really doesn’t matter. I point to a mini bottle of wine, figuring I’ll still be safe to drive after drinking that.

He opens it and hands it to me, then selects a bottle of expensive beer for himself.

“What do we need to talk about?” What could possibly warrant a talk like this?

That's what I'm really thinking as the door to the mini-bar closes.

He takes a nice, long sip off his beer before he says, “Your mother called me today.”

My hand tightens around the mini plastic wine bottle. “Why?”

“Because Ben's job isn't as safe as you think. She called to tell me if I don’t take you to Rochelle’s wedding, they'll let my boy go after the holidays.”

The floor drops out under me. My stomach knots. And if he's telling me the truth, I want to bring that pie home and ram it in my own mother's face.