Page 8 of Fated Shot

That seems to get my own attention, and I focus back on the café. Harold and I chat for a little while I wait for my latte.

“See you tonight?” I ask while I reach for the coffee cup Harold is offering ahead of me.

“Yep, I’ll be the grumpy old guy in the corner.” I laugh, heading out the door with a wave.

By the time I return to the big house, Mom is already pouring coffee while Dad reads the paper at the breakfast nook. When she asks if I’d like some, I simply lift my Cordelia’s cup. “All set, Mom, thanks. Wanted to get an early start.”

I love how my parents give me space to do my thing. The kitchen is my zone, my little world. With the ovens preheating, I grab the stack of metal bowls from the fridge and start shaping five ounce dough balls, spreading them across four baking sheets. Soon, the cookies are baking away, and in less than two hours, they’re all done. I neatly arrange them on the trays Mom set out, cover them, and decide my work here is done.

As I step back from my baking, I can already sense the subtle shift in the house's atmosphere—the telltale signs that Mom is in full host mode.

Bev Cameron is a social butterfly, perfect housewife, and host extraordinaire. As such, I learned to steer clear of her any day we have guests over, which is often. She’s a flurry of preparation, cleaning, cooking, cleaning, decorating, and more cleaning. I’m more than happy to take a step back and let her do her thing, but I always offer to help in case pigs begin to fly and she decides to exit her one-woman wonder hosting zone.

On my way out the back door, I spot my dad in the pantry, hiding. He’s holding up the cereal, seemingly studying the ingredient list in great detail.

“Look alive, Coach,” I shout out, causing him to drop the box. Chuckling, I give him a sympathetic look as I try to casually close the door a few inches more, hiding him from sight, like the good daughter I am. If there is anything that scares big bad Douglas Cameron, it’s his wife in a hosting day frenzy.

After an hour chilling in his catio, as I lounge on the dock soaking in the sun, Bean and I head inside. I check my computer,and I smile when I see the SOLD OUT notification. It looks like it’s going to be another busy week. Shutting it again, I make my way to the couch, enjoying a few more hours of peace.

After an everything shower and blowing out my hair, I throw on my blue floral sundress. Taking an extra five minutes, I add a bit of blush, a coat of mascara, and some tinted lip oil. I gave up trying to cover my freckles a long time ago, no amount of foundation was successful in hiding them, so I decided to just embrace the spots.

Giving Bean a kiss, I flick the porch lights on, lock the boat house, and make my way up the gravel path to the main house.

I’m fashionably late, I’ve decided. I was definitely not trying to avoid joining the party. Throwing on a pleasant smile, I try to not so obviously anxiously scan the already lively crowd for a familiar face. Thankfully, I spot my mom quickly, perks of her illuminating presence and sun-kissed hair. I all but skip over, relief sweeping across my face. Mom wastes no time grabbing my hand and happily toting me around the room, continuing to introduce me to those I didn’t meet on Friday.

After a little while of polite socializing and at least thirty minutes of staying glued to Harold’s side, I grab a water and take in the scene around me. The back deck looks incredible, with fairy lights strewn across our railing, the firepit roaring, and tables of food lining the back wall. As I continue observing, a gorgeous girl, maybe a few years older, stops beside me. “Amelia?”

I look at her, confused, “Yes?”

“Oh my gosh, I knew it, you look just like your mom!” Her smile is contagious and before I can say anything else, she wraps me in a hug. I return the gesture, albeit a little confused, getting a whiff of her Chanel perfume.

Still beaming, she continues, “Your mom has been telling us so much about you! I’ve been dying to meet you. I’m Camille.”

Bev strikes again, never missing an opportunity to talk about her favorite daughter. “Oh wow, it’s great to meet you! I love your romper.” I remark, her petite figure perfectly accentuated by a square-neck black romper flowing halfway to her knees.

“Thanks! It has pockets!” She shoves her hands in them to show me.

I laugh at the quirky gesture, “Love that, I missed the memo clearly, and now I’m stuck holding my phone all night.” I’m genuinely starting to rethink my entire wardrobe decision, but I try focusing back on the stunning brunette. “So, how did you meet my mom?”

“A Tundra game, silly!” Which I should have guessed. The supermodel in front of me most definitely could score a professional hockey player, even then, they might be punching above their station. “You have to meet my hubby! Let me see if I can find him.” I scan the crowd with her as I wait for her to identify which of the drop-dead gorgeous, athletic men now standing in my backyard is hers.

Bingo. She stops her search. “Scottie!—Scott!” I watch as she starts yelling at a big, burly man standing by the barbecue next to my dad. He looks toward us as Camille motions for him to come. With a small chuckle, he puts down his beer and makes his way over to join us. With a thick beard framing his face, he looks more mature than the other players, like he has some added years under his belt. When he reaches us, he leans down and pops an adorable kiss on Camille’s forehead before turning to face me.

“Amelia, we meet at last. I’m Scott.” His voice as burly as you’d expect from a towering lumberjack.

“Hey, Scott,” I say warmly. I’m trying to muster every ounce of socialization skills I can.

“Hun, did you know Amelia made the cookies?” He directs to his wife.

“YOU’RE KIDDING.” With a playful squeal, she slaps my arm like I’ve been holding out on her. “I’ve had three already,” she admits with a giggle.

I can’t help but smile, if there’s one thing I can talk about for hours, it’s baking. “I’m so glad you liked them! I’ll be sure to send some home with you at the end of the night.”

“I don’t think there will be any left,” Scott remarks, nodding his head over to a table filled with snacks. The eight dozen cookies I made this morning are nowhere to be seen. Instead, I count only five remaining. Note to self: hockey players eat like vacuums, and I desperately need to get them on my customer list.

“Next time, I’m grabbing five,” Camille mentions decidedly. “Uh, where exactly is our child, Scott?” a bit of playful concern in her tone.

“Kaia is playing with Uncle Brody,” he says unphased, tilting his head toward the lounge chairs beside the pool.

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