fooled, but I know the truth. You are ugly on the inside. A worthless soul who will never find redemption.”
An answering rage flared over his perfect face, but he didn’t say a word, just bared his teeth as if he was working to keep from lashing back. But it didn’t matter; I was done.
“I truly hate you,” I whispered before I fled the room.
That night, I clung to my mother, unable to cry but shivering with humiliation and anger. An hour later, Sam came home, crying, her makeup running in dark rivers over her cheeks. Macon had dumped her.
“He said he was finished with the Baker sisters,” she sobbed, huddled by my side. “That I wasn’t worth this hassle.”
I wanted to show sympathy, but I couldn’t. I gave her a half-hearted hug. “You’re better off without him.” Truer words I’d never spoken.
Sam had turned to me then, her hug fierce. “I’m so sorry, Delilah. I’m so sorry I chose him over you. I’m sorry for everything.”
Macon Saint might have hurt me, but he’d brought the Baker sisters together once more. Our family moved away shortly after that, and I never saw Macon again. But the scars he left on my psyche lingered for far too long.
CHAPTER ONE
Delilah
Grandma Maeve used to say hate will toughen your dough; a good bake is made with love. I don’t know about hate, but my stress seems to be leaking out all over my brioche. The dough has become tacky and warm when it should be smooth and cool. I’ve overkneaded it in my distraction.
Mama’s birthday brunch is tomorrow, and I haven’t heard from Sam in days. Sam, who was supposed to get Mama’s present while I do the cooking. Sam, who promised that she would find Mama something “ah-mazing!” and not to worry about paying her back. Well, I do. Especially since Sam is almost always short on cash. When she’s flush with money, it usually means trouble.
The surface of the dough clings to my palm, and I utter a sound of disgust. Scooping the mass up, I dump it in the garbage and start arranging my mise en place all over again. I’m a professional chef, not a baker, and it shows. But I’m determined to up my game.
My phone dings with a text just as I’m opening a packet of yeast.
Unknown number: Sam, if you don’t get your ass back here in 30 min, I’m calling the police.
It’s such an odd text I can only stare at the phone and frown. I don’t recognize the number, but “Sam” has me hesitating. Weird how I was just thinking of my sister, Sam. Then again, Sam is a common name. This “Sam” might be a dude, for all I know.
Another text lights up my phone.
I mean it. I’m not falling for your “I’m just a sweet little ol’ southern belle” shit anymore. I know you took the watch. You WILL return it.
Now this gives me pause. Many times has Sam accused me of complaining about her sweet little ol’ southern belle act. A glance at the phone also reminds me that it’s April 1.
Rolling my eyes, I dust off my hands and pick up the phone.
This has got to be the lamest April Fools’ joke yet, Sam. At least pretend to be someone other than yourself.
Immediately, I get a response.
Are you shitting me? Mistaken identity? That’s what you’re going with? Cut the crap. Get. Over. Here. Now.
Annoyed, I type back harder than usual.
This isn’t even “Sam’s” number so I’m the one calling bullshit on YOU. Stop with the funny business. I’m busy making Mama’s surprise brunch.
Please. I’ve tasted your cooking. I’d be safer eating canned food.
Oh, that’s just low and uncalled for. I fire back a response.
You know, Sam, you’re kind of acting like . . . an asshole.
There’s a pause, and I can almost feel Sam wondering if she should drop the charade. When she finally answers, it isn’t what I expect.
Did you just quote Sixteen Candles to me?
Well, duh. It’s my favorite film, despite the fact “you” get to star in it.
I have to smile a little. It always stuck in my craw that the main character has the same name as my sister and not me. Something Sam used to needle me with all the time.
Another text makes my phone ping.
That was Delilah’s favorite. You, OTOH, can’t sit still long enough to finish a movie. Stop diverting. Bring me my watch.
I frown. Her response is just weird. Sam never insults herself.