Page 25 of Their Romantic Chalet

Lavender looks amazed. “There’s a lot of people here.”

“Yeah? It’s a family get-together. What do you expect?”

“Most of the time when my family got together, it was a glorified business meeting. And half the people there are hired help.”

“Are you saying you don’t even have aunts and uncles and cousins?”

She shrugs. “I probably do, but I’ve never gotten the chance to be close to any of them. My parents ran them off, thinking they were out for money more than kinship.”

“Sounds awful. And I don’t get it. Why get rich if you can’t support your family?”

“If you value getting richer rather than having their company, I suppose.”

“My family isn’t doing too bad financially. We’ve helped each other through a lot, and had gotten a lot of people who were knocked down back on their feet. They, in turn, return that help when others get knocked down.”

“I’m jealous,” she says. “I’m absolutely jealous. I’m brought up with fancy cars, being given caviar at the age of five, and here I am being jealous of you and your potato salad cookouts.”

“Aunt Marie’s potato salad is the food of the gods, and I won’t let you talk bad about it.”

“I assure you I’m not.”

We continue through the party, Lavender being amazed by the most mundane of things, left and right. She's never played kickball.

What a deprived childhood she had.

“Hawk,” I hear my grandfather say as he runs up to me. “We got a situation.”

I raise my eyebrow. “Oh. What’s going on?”

The tone he speaks in suggests there’s a big fight. Maybe one of my cousins got too drunk again. Maybe a bear has wandered into the party. Both have happened before—and multiple times.

“We don’t have a cake,” he says.

“No cake?” Lavender echoes.

“Your grandma’s been sick as a dog this past week. She was supposed to make the cake yesterday so it’d be all good and ready for today, but she hasn’t. She’s still barely able to walk.”

“So? Did you want me to go order a cake? Grab one from the store?”

“All of the ingredients here?” Lavender asks, interjecting herself into my grandfather’s concerns. “I’m assuming she was going to make it herself from scratch.”

My grandfather raised an eyebrow. “I’m guessing so, we have a stocked pantry, butter and eggs are in the fridge.”

“I can help,” she says. “I’m a professional baker.”

“You are, are you? Would you, then? We can't have a proper birthday party without cake.”

“Take me to the kitchen and it will be done.” She grabs my arm. “Come on, Hawk.”

“What do you need me for?”

“I need an assistant, and you’re clearly the best choice.”

“The last time I baked something it was from a box—brownies—and they came out usable as weapons.”

“Oh, quiet, boy. You have the guidance of a professional with you,” Grandpa says, slapping me on the back. “You’ll do wonderfully.”

The two of us head for the kitchen, and I whisper to Lavender as we go, “Not judging your abilities, but I thought you didn’t go to baking school yet. How are you a professional baker?”

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