Page 12 of Broken Pact

“I’d exercise caution and restraint if I were you, son,” Mom says, breezing in from the doorway.

My brothers straighten immediately, mildly chagrined cringes plastered on their faces. It takes everything in me to keep the smug satisfaction off of mine.

“Ma, didn’t see you there,” Beau says, rounding the island and tossing his arm over her shoulder.

Graham drags his palm across the back of his neck. “How, uh, how much of that did you hear?”

Mom looks at him over the bridge of her nose. An impressive feat for a woman a foot shorter than her sons. My brothers got their height from our dad while my sister and I look like carbon copies of our mother.

In fact, all of the Carter women seem to be made from the same cookie cutter for too many generations to count. The same hair, thick and sort of wavy. A brown so dark that it looks black unless you’re in direct sunlight. Then it sort of sparkles with this deep auburn color. I tried to dye my hair a brighter version of that sunlit color in high school, but the color didn’t last for longer than a couple of days.

And while my sister and I look related, it’s Evangeline and I that look like sisters. Our features are so similar that the only thing that separates us is our eye color. Even our styles have come closer to one another over the past couple of years. She used to be all pressed linen pant suits at work and chiffon summer dresses, while I was chef’s coats and band tees with ripped jeans. Our Venn diagram of style overlapped for a small sampling of textiles. But as we grew up, the center part of commonality grew so large that there are now so very few things we don’t both love.

In fact, she’s let me dip into her closet more than usual over the last year. She argued that her closet needed some love since she was ignoring it for her maternity wardrobe instead. My cousin and subsequent best friend found herself the center of a Reaper love triangle a couple of years ago. I thought for sure she’d listen to my advice and fuck around and leave ’em wanting, because that’s the type of men they are in my experience.

But thank god she didn’t. Because if she had, then I wouldn’t have the most perfect newborn baby girl to spoil at every opportunity and the most charming six-year-old. Hunter is Silas’s son, but Evie is the only mother he’s ever known. I don’t know when I cried more: when she officially adopted Hunter or when she had Ruby a couple months ago.

I’m trying my best to give them their space as they adjust to a family of six. Being in an unconventional relationship like she is in a small town could be ostracizing. But not in Rosewood. No one even blinks at the fact that the Reaper’s president, his brother, and the vice president are all in a committed relationship with the same woman. Of course, none of them love her as much as Hunter does. He’s probably the best older brother I’ve ever seen.

And as I glance at the two clowns on the other side of the island, I know quite a bit about having older brothers. They’re assholes for sure, but they do have their moments.

I finish arranging the ice cream sandwiches on the platter and pop them back in the freezer.

“Where’s Abby?” I glance at the clock on the microwave behind Beau.

Mom steps out from under Beau’s arm, heading toward the counter where the plates and flatware are waiting. “Oh, didn’t I mention it? Your sister has a big event coming up. They flew her out to Portland for a few weeks to help train someone.” She pauses, resting her hands on the edge of the quartz countertop. She narrows her eyes on a spot in the middle of the island. “You know, now that I think about it. I can’t remember if she said Portland or Orlando. Hm.” She shrugs her shoulders and blinks a few times. She looks at me with a smile. “You know your sister. Always so busy. They’d be lost without her. Her boss told her she’s one of the most valuable employees at their company.”

“She works hard,” Graham adds, snagging the stack of light blue linen napkins off the counter.

Mom nods, a proud grin turning up the corners of her mouth. “She does. She’s always worked hard. Straight A’s in school, graduated at the top of her class in college.” She sighs, the sound sort of wistful. “And in just a few years, she worked herself up the top of the corporate ladder, making herself indispensable to them.” She looks between my brothers and me. “Each of you could learn a thing or two from your sister.”

I know I shouldn’t take it personally. My sister did work her ass off and achieved all of those things. She’s dedicated and charming, so fucking smart, and she also puts in sixty to seventy hours a week.

“Ouch, Ma,” Graham grumbles with a faux wince, clutching the napkins to his chest like he’s covering a wound. “You wound me. I’d like to see Abby build you a custom ecommerce website for you to sell your plants and take care of it every time you get a wild hair and watch too many YouTube videos.”

“Or build you and Dad a diversified portfolio that balances growth and income, ensuring a comfortable retirement. Or maybe that’s your plan, yeah? You and Dad want to work until you’re eighty,” Beau chimes in.

“Ach, well, that’s true. What would I do without my boys?” she says, patting Beau’s forearm. “I know you work hard too. But you both sit behind computers all day and your sister travels.” She says travel like it’s an exotic word.

And maybe to her, it is. Born and raised in Rosewood. She met dad at a summer festival in a neighboring town, Monarch Grove. The way he tells it, it was love at first sight for him. They got married, and he came to Rosewood because she wanted to be closer to her family while starting her own.

I clear my throat, the back of my neck prickling with awareness. “I have my bakery, Mom.”

She tsks, her face falling into something that resembles a sympathetic smile. “Right, of course. You have . . .”

“Sugarplum,” I say when she trails off. My cheeks feel hot and I have to force myself to remain still.

“Right, Sugarplums,” she says with a nod.

“Just Sugarplum, Mom. It’s not plural,” I murmur, my gaze darting to my brothers. I hate that they’re bearing witness to this . . . this uncomfortable moment.

She lifts her shoulders, a bright smile on her face. It’s tugged down in the corners for it to be genuine though. She rests her hands on either side of the stack of plates. “I don’t know why I have such a hard time with that name. I’ll get it one of these days, honey. Sugar & Spice was just so catchy, it rolled right off your tongue, ya know?”

Sugar & Spice Bakery, as in my old job. Located just off of Main Street in downtown Rosewood, Sugar & Spice was a nice enough bakery. But it wasn’t without its faults too, something Mom keeps forgetting.

Her gaze flits between my eyes, and behind the veil of motherly concern is judgment. It’s been this way since I announced my plans for my bakery, made possible by her late mother’s will. Nana Jo left all her grandkids something when she passed a couple years ago—gifts with strings. I don’t even know what stipulations she left for my siblings, despite the countless times I’ve asked. But with my sizable check came the stipulation that it’s only to be used to open my own bakery.

Because Nana Jo knew that was my dream. She used to call me her little sugarplum because I spent so much time in the kitchen with her. So it felt fitting to name my bakery after the woman who made it possible.

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