"Impressive," I murmur, taking a generous sip of wine.
Mrs. Harper sweeps around the table with a bottle of cabernet, topping off glasses with practiced elegance. "More wine, Charlotte?"
"God, yes. Please," I reply with perhaps too much enthusiasm, earning a knowing chuckle from her.
"Olivia, dear?" She gestures with the bottle.
"Just a splash. I'm watching my macros this week," Olivia replies, covering her glass with her hand after barely a pour.
Mrs. Harper completes her circuit around the table, then clasps her hands together. "Everyone, please dig in! My special holiday lasagna."
Grateful for the interruption, I reach for the serving spoon just as Olivia does the same.
"Oh, sorry!" she trills, withdrawing her hand with a giggle. "You go first. You must be hungry after all the activities you've been doing with Sebastian."
The way she emphasizes his full name feels pointed, like she's reminding me of formalities.
"Thanks," I say, serving myself a generous portion before passing the dish to her. "And yes, we worked up quite an appetite."
She takes the lasagna, her smile tightening. "I bet. Ethan and I have been mostly sticking to the lodge. I find extreme sports so... unnecessary. The risk just isn't worth it, don't you think?"
Under the table, I feel a warm hand on my knee. Bash has managed to claim the seat beside me, and his touch grounds me instantly. He leans close, his breath tickling my ear.
"Hang in there, Shortcake. I brought emergency chocolate for later."
I bite back a smile, suddenly feeling like I can survive anything—even this dinner.
Emily makes an appreciative sound. "Yum! I've waited all year for this."
The salad bowl makes its way around the table, and soon everyone is eating and chatting. The collective conversation turns to tomorrow night's cookie decorating, another Harper-Whitaker tradition.
"We've got all new cookie cutter designs this year," Patricia says proudly. "And I found these edible glitter sprinkles that are just gorgeous."
I nod politely, taking a bite of lasagna, when I notice Ethan staring at me from across the table. Not a casual glance, he’s full-on staring, with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. I shift in my seat. What is his problem?
Bash leans closer. "So what's this cookie competition about? Sounds fun."
Grateful for the distraction, I turn toward him. "Oh, it's actually really great. My mom has a sugar cookie and royal icing recipe. We bake various holiday shaped cookies and make the icing and separate the icing batch into different colors and bag them. Everyone decorates the cookies however they want, and then we judge each other's work at the end.
I take another bite of my lasagna.
"Last year, Emily made this awesome—"
A tickle starts in the back of my throat, interrupting my story. I cough once, twice, then take a sip of wine. But the tickle becomes an itch, then a burn all at once, spreading like wildfire across my throat.
I cough again, harder this time, my chest tightening with each hack. Something isn't right. The familiar, terrifying sensation creeps through me, one I haven't felt in years but recognize instantly.
"Charlie? You okay?" Bash asks, his hand landing on my shoulder as he studies my face.
I nod instinctively—my default response to avoid making a scene—I grab my napkin and put it over my mouth, but the coughing continues, growing more violent. My lips start to tingle and then go numb, the sensation spreading across my cheeks like Novocaine. I take a desperate gulp of water, but it slides down my increasingly constricted throat without offering any relief.
"Is there—" I cough harder, panic rising as reality dawns on me. I clutch at the tablecloth, knuckles whitening. "Is there shellfish in the lasagna?"
Patricia looks confused, her perfectly penciled eyebrows drawing together.
"No, of course not!" Her eyes widen. "I've known about your shellfish allergy since you were ten."
My hand flies to my throat as another coughing fit hits. The room tilts sideways.
