Mema snorts a laugh.
Mom eyes her. “What?”
“Will has had a fine time from what I’ve seen in photos.” Mema winks, and my mouth drops open. No. Don’t say it. I beg her with my eyes.
Mom blots her lips with her napkin. “What do you mean?”
“You should ask him about Morgan.”
“Oooh, who’s Morgan?” My sister, Sophia, jumps all over this. “The girl you were dancing with last night?”
Mom elbows Mema, but Fran takes the mic, saving me from explaining anything or pointing her out. But then Fran says, “Morgan? Morgan Whitney?”
Everyone quiets.
Morgan reluctantly waves from where she stands with her parents near the dessert table.
My other sister, Brooklyn, points. “There she is. It is the girl you danced with!”
Thanks, Fran.
Fran gestures for Morgan to follow, so she obeys and follows the older woman out of the pavilion and to a hut that serves as the kitchen. I track her movement until the door closes behind her.
The reception returns to full volume, and my brows knit together. Oops. Mom and Mema are watching me with matching grins.
“Yes, Mom, that’s Morgan.”
Mema fans her hand at me. “Well, go save her fromthatwoman.”
I shake my head. “Morgan can take care of herself. Besides, I thought you said not to speak ill of anyone.”
“Oh, pishposh. You know very well I could’ve used any number of adjectives there.”
When I chuckle and pretend to zip my lips together, she pats my hand. Then Mom and Mema drift off to the dessert table, but my attention keeps returning to the hut.
They’re probably making Morgan do more work. And they’ll put me to work if I go over there. I’m done volunteering.
It’s not my problem.
I pick at the white tablecloth, letting out a long breath.
Fine. I’ll go. But then I’m coming right back to this table.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MORGAN
“Mrs. Thompson, I don’t know if I can. I haven’t done this kind of thing in a long time and definitely not on a real wedding cake.”
I’m standing in the pavilion’s kitchen where Fran and Mrs. Pax, Leo’s mom, are troubleshooting a mishap. The wedding cake, a modest but beautiful three-tiered masterpiece, was bumped on the way over. One edge of the bottom tier took the hit, and apparently, the poor girl who made the delivery doesn’t have a clue how to fix the smeared icing.
The last cake I decorated was the one I face-planted into because I was crying after being dumped by this woman’s son.
Mrs. Pax pats my shoulder. “Oh, honey, this fear is childish. Leo and I have discussed it many times.” The door creaks open as she squeezes my shoulder. “You have to fix the cake. Fran needs you to.”
They’ve discussed this? About me?
“No, you don’t,” comes another voice. “You don’t have to do it.” Suddenly, Will is there, his fingers wrapping around my wrist, pulling me toward the door.
