“Hey!” Greta protested, but her mouth quirked up at one corner. “Fair, but still. Hey.”
Some of the tension leaked from Maggie’s shoulders. “Well, that’s good to know because I’m not much of a baker either.”
Nessie pressed a glass of red wine into her hand and gestured toward the couch. “Sit. We’re just getting started.”
Maggie perched on the edge of the sofa, hand too tight around her wine glass. She took a sip to calm her nerves, the rich flavor filling her mouth.
“So,” Lila leaned forward, “tell us about your show. Is it as fun to film as it looks?”
Maggie immediately shifted into her media personality, the one that gave interviews and charmed contractors. “Oh, it’s amazing. Getting to transform spaces and help people reimagine their homes—it’s a dream job. The network gives us a lot of creative freedom, and my co-executive producer Taryn is fantastic about?—”
She caught herself, hearing the rehearsed quality of her own words. These women didn’t want the scripted version. “Sorry. That’s my stock answer.”
“Give us the real version,” Naomi said, refilling her own glass. “The one that doesn’t go in the press kit.”
“It’s... complicated.” She sighed and took another sip of wine. “I love the work, but TV adds layers. Some days are sixteen hours of reshooting the same reveal reaction until the lighting’s perfect.”
“Sounds like Joy Roberts’ Instagram aesthetic,” Lila said.
They all groaned, clearly familiar with the story.
“That woman was a bridezilla,” Mariah said with an eye roll. “She kept saying, ‘It has to be perfect for my brand.’ Her ‘brand’was twelve followers, and I bet half of them were her mother. Bless her heart.”
Laughter erupted, and Maggie smiled politely, reminded again that she was the newcomer. She didn’t know their inside jokes, their shared history.
Mariah caught her expression. “Small-town flower shop drama. Joy made me redo her wedding arrangements three times for increasingly nonsensical reasons, then tried to pay me in ‘exposure’ to her non-existent followers.”
“What did you do?” Maggie asked.
“Charged her triple and donated it to Naomi’s MMIW fund. Revenge through charity.”
This time, Maggie’s laugh was genuine. A heavy weight landed suddenly in her lap, and she startled, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her glass. A black cat with white paws had materialized from nowhere and was now making himself comfortable, kneading her thighs with needle-sharp claws.
“Socks has spoken,” Nessie declared with a grin. “You’re officially approved.”
Maggie laughed, louder than she intended, and let herself sink back into the couch cushions instead of perching on the edge. The cat continued kneading, purring so loudly she could feel the vibration through his whole body.
“Well, hello there,” she said, scratching behind his ears. “Aren’t you forward?”
“That’s Socks’ entire personality. Zero boundaries and complete confidence that everyone exists to worship him.” A timer dinged, and Nessie jumped up. “That’s my focaccia. Time to eat!”
The kitchen was a flurry of activity as everyone grabbed plates and silverware. Lila produced a ceramic dish from the top of the double oven, steam rising as she set it on atrivet. “Baked spaghetti. My grandmother’s recipe. Extra cheese, Italian sausage, and enough garlic to keep vampires away for a decade.”
Nessie placed her focaccia beside it, the bread golden-brown and fragrant, still radiating heat. She sliced it, revealing a soft interior stuffed with olives and herbs. It smelled so good that Maggie’s stomach growled audibly.
“That’s what I like to hear,” Nessie said with a laugh.
Greta produced a paper plate and set it on the counter next to the focaccia with a flourish. Strips of beef jerky formed a messy border around slices of apple cut in wildly varying thicknesses. “I’ve got protein! Don’t judge,” she said when she caught Maggie looking at her offering. “I can track a lost hiker through a blizzard, but I burn water.”
They ate on their laps and the coffee table, balancing plates and glasses. The cabin grew warmer. Someone cracked a window. Shoes were kicked off, and Maggie followed suit. It felt significant somehow, that small surrender to comfort.
Wine bottles multiplied. Second, then third. At some point, they migrated to the floor, sitting in a circle like teenagers at a sleepover. Blankets appeared, pulled from the backs of furniture.
Socks circulated, shameless in his begging until Greta slipped him a piece of sausage.
“Don’t give him that,” Lila said.
“Why not? He had a hard life before coming here. He deserves to be spoiled now.”
