Page 60 of Stolen Vows

Eloise Hawthorne. I recognize her from the software I built for the Gauntlet to track all the race data. I didn’t realize Beau was at the Carter Sunday night dinner stage yet. But I should’ve known. You don’t throw away a sizable inheritance unless you’re serious.

They’re here, sitting close to one another. His arm around the back of her chair as he whispers something low in her ear. Her lips twitch, and my brother grins. It’s a true smile, the kind that brightens up the entire room.

But what’s more surprising is the other person at the table. I’m guessing Eloise’s younger sister. Their hair color is different, but they have the same nose.

Huh. Now that is different.

My brother is reckless in a lot of ways, but not with family dinners, not anymore. All it takes is one time, one damn-near insufferable dinner, sitting through our mother’s prodding questions about the status of your relationship. Then you never make that mistake again.

Except for my sister, Cora. She’s made that mistake often.

Even now, sitting next to her boyfriend, who’s a member of a motorcycle club for fuck’s sake, she’s weathering too many questions from Mom. Mostly about the timeline and status of their nuptials. Cora isn’t even engaged yet.

I exhale slowly as I step further into the living room. The weight of what I’m about to do settles heavy on my shoulders, a physical pressure that makes it hard to breathe.

Ever since I dug deeper into Francesca’s situation, uncovering the ugly truth buried in legal jargon and unrealistic benchmarks, my mind has been spinning. Turning over every angle, every possibility, searching for a solution. A way to make sure she doesn’t lose everything she’s worked so hard for. Everything that matters to her.

I found one. It would solve several problems. But I’m not sure if it’s the right solution.

The uncertainty makes me uncomfortable, like trying to fit into a too-small wool sweater. Tight, itchy, induces a slightly claustrophobic sort of panic. I’ve had days to marinate on this idea, and it’s solid.

I settle into my usual seat, on the other side of my brother. “Show time,” I mutter under my breath with a flash of a smirk. Sometimes family dinners feel like that, performative. Like it’s this play all of us have committed to once a week and our parents are the audience.

“What’s that, bro?” Beau asks, his tone light.

“Nothing.” I spear a piece of garlic bread and avoid his gaze. “Just enjoying . . . whatever this is.”

“Knock it off,” he mutters, but the words lack any real bite.

My molars grind together at the soft reprimand. As if I’m not about to alter my life for him.

My brows cave in as emotions bubble inside of me. Intellectually, I know it’s not fair to hold him to something he doesn’t know about. But emotions are funny like that. They don’t really give a shit about fairness and timing.

Across the table from me, my sister’s boyfriend, Jagger, leans forward with a grin. “So, Eloise, Beau tells us you like to bake. You should stop by Sugar Plum Bakery. Cora’s got about a million recipes she’s always working on.”

Eloise glances at my sister, her expression lighting up. “Oh, is that your bakery?”

Cora’s cheeks redden, but her smile is bright and full. “Yep. I’m working on having it open full-time, but I mostly do custom orders. I’m almost always there.”

“I’ll have to stop by sometime. What have you made recently? Beau said you like to experiment with stuff,” Eloise murmurs.

Cora laughs. “Yeah, sometimes it doesn’t work out, but I love trying new things. Last week I made these lavender honey macarons with a blackberry buttercream filling. They turned out pretty good.”

“They were delicious,” Jagger says, grinning at my sister like it’s some kind of private joke.

As much as I hate to admit it, jealousy curdles inside my gut. It’s stupid and misplaced, and I tune out the rest of their conversation so I can unpack it.

I’m happy for my sister. I really am. And I’m happy for my brother too. So I don’t really understand why I’m experiencing any kind of jealous feelings. It just doesn’t track.

“She fits right in,” Dad murmurs from his spot at the head of the table toward Beau.

Beau glance at Dad. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “She does.”

If Francesca says yes, will we recreate the same scene in a few months? Will she bond with my sister over baking, and will my dad tell me how well she fits in too?

I can’t logically see a reason why she wouldn’t. Francesca is adaptable, effortlessly charming in a way that isn’t calculated. People like her. More than that, they trust her. If she were here, my dad would probably be saying the same thing about her right now.

“Shit,” Beau mutters under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

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