Page 9 of Selfish Desires

“Ah, second.” Stephen tilted his nose to the ceiling. “Who was lucky number one, then?”

“I was, and don't you ever forget,” said Marissa, bursting through the kitchen with plates and an oversized carving knife meant to kill.

Stephen released a low chuckle, leaning back in his chair to give her space, a playful grin on his face. “So you came armed to remind me?”

“More like intending to carve Wendy's birthday cake,” Marissa countered with a smirk, wielding the knife dramatically.

“Well, then, let me help with that.” From the white baker's box, Stephen produced a cake. It was a beautiful red velvet masterpiece with cream cheese frosting and a scattering of silver sprinkles on top, just like the ones I used to love when I was younger. He remembered.

I threw an appreciative side-eye to Stephen and smiled. “It's beautiful.”

“I thought you might like it.” He matched my smile with his own, obviously pleased with my reaction. “The sprinkles were a challenge to find. They couldn't just be silver sprinkles. I remember you said they had a shimmer.” He gestured to the cake. “I found your shimmer.”

“Shimmer,” I echoed, and something inside of me twisted. Not in the painful way it usually did when memories flooded back. This time was different, a subtle throb that sprung tears to my eyes, and I quickly blinked them away before anyone could notice.

“Wow, Stephen,” Marissa exclaimed, peering at the cake over my shoulder, “You really went all out for our Wendy here.”

Stephen grinned, a hint of pink gracing his cheeks. “Well, she deserves nothing but the best.”

When Stephen's hand tapped her wrist, Marissa took charge, readying to carve the first slice out of the dessert marvel. “Aren't we going to sing? What about candles?”

“No, no.” I waved a finger in the air. “No singing and definitely no candles. We'd light this place on fire with how old I am.”

“Forty-two isn't old,” Marissa reminded.

“Marissa!” I hissed. No one knew my age except for her. My eyes danced over to Stephen, who feigned bulging eyes.

“Get out. You're that old?” he teased.

“Don't even go there.” I poked his chest, only to be met with a wall of muscle. “Wow, do you work out?”

“Don't change the subject. And yes, I do.” He took my finger from his chest and lowered it.

“Yes, I'm forty-two.” I straightened my back, deciding to flaunt my age like a badge of honor. “And how young are you?”

“I'm forty-one,” answered Stephen.

Our eyes turned to Marissa, waiting for her response.

“I'm thirty-five,” she said, serving me a slice of cake that spilled over the edges of the white porcelain plate.

“Ugh, you bitch.” I playfully scowled and took the first bite of heaven. “Oh my God.” I covered my mouth with my hand as every molecule of this cake melted against my tongue, coating my taste buds with the perfect balance of sugar and cream.

Marissa cut slices for her and Stephen, and the three of us fell into a comfortable silence, eating too many carbs for this time of night, but it was my birthday, so fuck it. I wanted to ask where Stephen bought this masterpiece, but then it would be like him tattling on the competition, so I let it rest instead.

“So, tell us,” Stephen began. “When you lived in fancy New York City, how did you celebrate your birthday?”

Marissa's fork hit the plate with a clank, and I stopped mid-chew. I never spoke about my past life to Stephen. With Marissa, I confided enough details for her to know better and not bring it up, especially on my special day.

“Well, it wasn't always glitzy, you know?” I shrugged, my eyes darting to Marissa. She looked just as surprised by Stephen's question as I was.

“Of course not,” Stephen replied lightly, unaware of the tension in the air. “But there must've been some exciting moments.”

I hesitated before replying, “Well, we had a tradition...” I trailed off as memories of Vincent surfaced. This was not what I wanted to talk about. But it seemed inevitable tonight.

“Really? What was it?” Stephen leaned in closer, eager for the mentionable details from my past life that I had previously glossed over.

“We used to go to this little Italian place in Brooklyn,” I began, smiling at the memory. “It was nothing fancy, but they made this amazing tiramisu.”

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