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“Debatable,” Maisie mutters.

He disappears into the kitchen. I hear a clatter, then two dishes thud onto the table in front of me. Gage’s body heat settles beside me as he sits back down. “I brought you here to meet my family and confront my deepest psychological trauma. And…a bake-off.”

“This happens every fall,” Paula explains.

“I prefer his,” Maisie offers.

“Thank you,” Gage says.

“Don’t make me regret it.”

A warm hand touches my shoulder. “You’re the tiebreaker, sweetie,” Nana Noreene says. “I’ve made the same crisp for fifty-four years.”

The edge of a spoon touches my bottom lip. “Blind test. Open up, Jules.”

“Oh, you’re all insane.” I take the first bite and moan.

It’s incredible. Caramelized apples, browned butter, pecans, a little salt, warmth from a boozy under-taste. “Damn.”

The smugness practically radiates off Gage like a radar. After some coffee to cleanse my palate, I taste the second and freeze. Soft apples. Cinnamon. Brown sugar. A crisp oat topping. Nothing fancy. It tastes like Grandmother Autumn.

I tap my head. “Blindfold off, please.”

One sweep, and I meet four highly expectant gazes. I purse my lips and gesture to the second dish. Gage’s face falls before I even speak. Nana starts smiling.

I offer a sweet shrug. “This one.”

Nana shrieks. His mother shrieks. Both descend on me again, and I disappear inside another two-woman hug while Nana declares she knew I was perfect. Gage slumps back in his chair like Julius Caesar bleeding out on the Senate floor.

“Why?” he asks the ceiling before glaring daggers at me. “Et tu, Jubilee?”

Laughing, I reach over and squeeze his hand. “Your caramel thing was incredible.”

“Caramel thing?”

“Elevated caramel thing.”

“His has browned butter, bourbon caramel, three kinds of apples, toasted pecans, and Lord knows what else,” Nana Noreene says. “Mine has apples right from our orchard, cinnamon, butter, brown sugar, oats, and common sense.”

“Bias,” Gage mutters.

Nana Noreene kisses my cheek. I spoon another bite into my mouth. “Sorry, Cannon. Apple crisp should taste like grandma.”

He points at Nana. “You’ve turned her against me.”

“She has taste.” She squeezes me harder.

He throws a hand in the air. “I’m a nationally recognized pastry chef.”

Maisie takes another spoonful from Gage’s dish. “For what it’s worth, yours is objectively more accomplished.”

“Says the psycho,” I tease.

“Exactly. My palate isn’t compromised by sentimentality.”

Valid.

Farm cats crowd the porch outside the screen door. Maisie excuses herself, swipes her scarf from the hook to step outside, and I smile at the chorus of greeting meows. Nana Noreene and Paula are still arguing over whether my stockings have pumpkins or jack-o’-lanterns on them when Gage scoots his chair closer and feeds me more apple crisp.