Page 52 of The Girlfriend Goal
"Is anyone ever ready for that?"
The kitchen was chaos. Shiloh fluttered around in a dress that definitely wasn't designed for cooking, directing caterers with the authority of someone who'd never made a meal in her life. Matt and Jared sat at the breakfast bar, watching the show with matching expressions of horror and fascination.
"Guys!" Shiloh spotted us. "Perfect timing. I need you two to make pies. It's so much more meaningful when family contributes, don't you think? I've laid out everything in the butler's pantry. The caterers will handle the serious cooking, but pies are so personal." She winked. "Plus, baking together is so romantic."
"We should help," Jared said, jumping up. "I'm excellent at pies."
"I'm, uh, also here," Matt added.
Which is how we ended up in a pantry the size of my bedroom, four people trying to make pies while avoiding feelings and flying flour.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered, rolling out dough with perhaps too much force.
"This is hilarious," Jared corrected, artfully crimping his crust. "We're in a butler's pantry. Do you think they have an actual butler?"
"Probably," Lance said. "His name's definitely Reginald."
"Or Wadsworth," Matt suggested, then immediately got hit with flour from Jared. "Hey!"
"That's for insulting butler naming conventions."
They devolved into a flour fight that had me and Lance retreating to the far corner, our own pies forgotten.
"Incoming!" Matt's shout preceded a cloud of flour that covered us both.
"That's it," I declared. "This means war."
The pie-making devolved into chaos. Flour everywhere, Jared shrieking about his hair, Matt using a rolling pin as a shield. By the time Richard found us, we looked like we'd been through a blizzard.
"What the hell!" Richard's face went through several colors before settling on purple. "This is a $200,000 kitchen."
"Good thing flour's cheap," Lance said mildly.
"You think this is funny?"
"Richard, darling!" Shiloh appeared. "Oh my. Well, the cleaners will handle it. Won't they, sweetheart?"
The look Richard gave us promised retribution, but he couldn't argue with Shiloh in front of company.
We scattered to clean up and dress for dinner. I was still finding flour in my hair when the formal dining room torture began.
The table could have seated twenty. The five of us clustered at one end while Richard held court, telling stories about Lance that were clearly meant to humiliate. The time Lance wet the bed at seven. The time he failed a spelling test. Each story carefully chosen to cut.
"And then there was the time he thought he could make the NHL," Richard laughed. "Eleven years old, could barely read, but thought he'd be the next Gretzky."
"He's being scouted by three teams," I said quietly.
The table went silent.
"Excuse me?" Richard's voice was dangerous.
"Lance is being actively scouted by three NHL teams. The Rangers were at the last game." I met his gaze steadily. "Seems like that eleven-year-old might’ve been onto something."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." I set down my fork. "I understand that you've spent this entire meal trying to make your son feel small. That every story you've told has been designed to embarrass him. That you're so threatened by his success you need to remind him of every childhood mistake."
"Rachel," Lance warned.
