Page 50 of Wish For Me

“My dad and I are staying at this hotel,” he says, like that should be the most obvious thing in the world. “What are you doing here?” He holds up a hand. “On second thought, don’t bother. You’re here to overthink the cake, right?”

It’s not like I didn’t expect to see him for the wedding. He told me last week they’d be in Napa. There was maybe a part of me that hoped they wouldn’t come, what with the change in venue, but I can’t say I’m surprised. Seeing him in the middle of the night is an entirely different story, though.

“What are you doing down here,” I ask through gritted teeth. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping? Oh wait, vampires don’t sleep, do they?”

He smirks. “I was taking a walk and saw you come in. Thought I would come and see what you were neurotically obsessing over this time.”

“You were taking a walk? At four-thirty in the morning?”

“Says the girl who’s working on a cake at four-thirty in the morning.”

“Whatever.” I turn away and head to the cabinet with my piping supplies. “You satisfied your curiosity—neurotic Vega is here in the middle of the night to obsess over her cake. Congratulations. You can leave now.”

As is his habit, he ignores me. “So where is it?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to see.”

I spin around to face him, ready to tell him that he’s more than welcome to see my middle finger. But before I can open my mouth, his gaze drops, eyes traveling down my body in a way that makes my stomach feel weird.

Peter is dressed in his usual uniform of black t-shirt and black jeans. He probably sleeps in that get-up. Or maybe it’s part of his evil demon lifeforce and he’d shrivel up and die if he wore anything else.

I, however, am dressed exactly how I was when I rolled out of bed an hour ago, after tossing and turning most of the night. I’m wearing an oversized pair of navy sweat pants that I stole from Cade a hundred years ago and a ratty old Intrigue t-shirt that I’ve had forever. My wavy hair is a tangled mess gathered up at the top of my head and I’m not wearing even a hint of make-up.

Not exactly how I want to look when facing off with my mortal enemy.

Peter’s mouth twitches as he brings his attention back to my face. “Is that what you always wear to bed?”

“No,” I snap. “It’s usually black silk and lace, but it’s a little chilly in the mountains in December.”

His jaw clenches tight and I congratulate myself on making him uncomfortable. But not uncomfortable enough to leave, apparently. Instead, he stands there, glaring at me from across the kitchen. I almost laugh—how many times have I seen him glaring at me across a kitchen? Pretty much every memory I have of our time on that baking show as kids involves this exact scowl on Peter’s face.

Right up until the minute he sabotaged me, causing me to get knocked out of the competition just before the final round. He hadn’t been scowling that day. His face had been…I don’t even know how to describe his face.

But thinking about that right now is only going to piss me off even more. And there’s no way I’m doing delicate piping work when I’m pissed off. I need steady hands and a cool head. So I decide to ignore Peter and his stupid green eyes and disconcertingly attractive scowl so I can get my work done.

“So tell me,” he says, leaning his hip against the prep table. “Have you really not finished the cake yet? Or is this you doing that normal Vega Ransome thing?”

“What normal Vega Ransome thing?” I ask. So much for ignoring him.

“That thing you do where you talk yourself into second-guessing your finished dessert.”

“I’m not second-guessing anything.” Lies. That’s absolutely what I’m doing.

“Then why are you here at four-thirty in the morning?”

I set a mixing bowl, a package of confectioner’s sugar, and food coloring on the prep counter. “If I tell you that, will you leave me alone?”

He releases a huff of air that might just be a chuckle. “Sure.”

“I had a nightmare.” I look up at him to find those green eyes locked on me, appraising in a way I don’t like. “I used plastic dowels for the supports and I usually use wood. And I guess my subconscious was worrying that it was a mistake.”

He grins. “Ah. The old collapsing cake dream.”

I blink at him. “You’ve had that dream?”

“Of course I’ve had that dream. Anyone who gives a shit about their desserts has had that dream.”