Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Winnifred
“I heard from Nell that you took care of Aiden’s cat—again,” Mom says, her voice already at Defcon One Disappointment level. “Freddy, we talked about this. Pet-sitting is not a career.”
Ah, yes. The old this-isn’t-a-real-job-because-it-didn’t-require-a-degree monologue, back by popular demand and now in a limited-edition guilt-trip tone.
What is she going to say when I tell her I’m planning to open a cupcakery and cookie factory next March?
Yes, I’ll call it a factory and not a bakery.
It sounds trendy-cool. I’m manifesting frosting-filled assembly lines and whimsical branding.
‘Frostationship’ is the working title. Okay, I’m still working on it.
But it has a modern edge, right? Sounds disruptive.
My cupcake-cookie aficionados will love the concept.
I could call it ‘Batter & Bloom,’ but where are the flowers? ‘The Frosted Wolf’ crossed my mind, but something tells me my family would see that as a personal attack. I’m trying to break generational patterns, not declare a pastry-fueled war.
Convincing them this is a real plan won’t be easy.
They already treat Aiden’s wedding cake empire like it’s an Etsy side hustle—despite the fact that she charges at least five grand per cake and turns out two weddings a week, plus custom cookies, and makes more in a month than Trish’s salary in a fancy law firm.
But since she doesn’t have a PhD, MD, or Esq.
behind her name, her success doesn’t count in the Wolfcraft family.
The good news is that she’s not a Wolfcraft. The bad news for Mom is that she’s only a Wolfcraft by marriage, so why are we even doing this competing shit? Okay, now I’m going off on a tangent. I stop myself and then focus on my current conversation.
I resist the urge to scream into the void. “It was just a favor, Mom,” I say, channeling my calmest customer service voice. “Aiden’s my favorite cousin, and I couldn’t say no. But if it makes you feel better, she picked him up last Monday, and I’m pet-free.”
“I don’t understand why she can’t just board the animal like a normal person.”
Is that even the norm? Mom wouldn’t know because she hates pets. I can’t explain to her either that Skylar has separation anxiety and once went full Exorcist on a groomer.
What I do say is, “It’s fine. Really. I like helping her.”
Mom sighs, the universal sound of ‘you’re exhausting me, and also yourself.’ “What are you doing this weekend?” she asks, all innocent-like—if innocent came with a lie detector and a moral compass set to Judgmental North.
Translation from Margot Wolfcraft to human: Are you broke again? Are you eating cereal for dinner? Is your electricity still on?
She’s fishing, probably deciding that I’m so fucking desperate I had to beg my cousin to let me take care of her cat, or I’d starve.
I’m not broke.
I’ve never been broke—just low on funds sometimes.
Though, I work ridiculous hours doing five different things that somehow still don’t count because they don’t come with health insurance or a mahogany desk.
I pay my rent, my bills, and my emergency chocolate fund.
That should be enough. But in my family, if you’re not saving lives, suing people, or running for office, you’re failing.
Do I have a retirement account? No. But I have twelve different revenue streams and serious savings.
Still, I know where this conversation is going, and I don’t have the energy for a debate with someone who still thinks receiving payments through my phone is a scam.
So, I pivot.
“Did I tell you about last night’s date?” I ask like I’m not dangling a shiny object to distract her.
“You went out with Chad? On a Wednesday?” She sounds scandalized as if I broke curfew at seventeen. I’m in my early thirties, Mother.
“Yes, Mom. He likes to be spontaneous,” I say because that’s the only way to take her off my back. Making my boyfriend sound like the swooniest guy in the entire world.
Is he? Not really. He needs some work. Did I go on a date last night? No, but she doesn’t have to know it. That’s the advantage of having my mother in another state. I can tell her whatever I want, and she won’t drive over to check if I’m being honest.
I lean back in the weathered chair on my deck, the sky turning dusky behind me. Soft lavender streaks melt into midnight blue as fairy lights flicker on around the railing. I love sunsets in Colorado. They’re magical.
My moment of peace lasts exactly three seconds.
Because then he appears.
Soren.
Looking like he was chiseled out of quiet judgment and denim.
He’s standing near his own deck, arms crossed, jaw clenched, watching me like I’m committing a misdemeanor with my very existence.
He’s wearing that soft black Henley shirt again—the one with the buttons down the front that probably cause minor heart palpitations in most women within a ten-foot radius—not me, of course. Never me.
His sleeves are pushed up, revealing forearms that look like they’ve chopped wood, wrestled bears, or built cabins by hand. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks. Like my life is a questionable movie trailer, and he’s not buying the ticket but wants to check the trailer.
I wave at him as if saying hello, but also, ‘stay in your lane.’ I don’t need his opinion during my conversation. Not that he gives it while I’m on the phone, but I want to set a boundary in case he’s tempted to cross it.
“Anyway, Mom, Chad, and I have plans this weekend. Romantic ones. Think . . . vineyard sunsets. Maybe a couple’s massage. All very dreamy.”
Soren’s other brow lifts. Yep. He definitely heard that.
Perfect. Now, I’m lying to my mother and being silently judged by my ridiculously attractive, perpetually grumpy neighbor. I really hope this doesn’t reach Winterberry, or I’m fucked.
This is just another day in the life of Winnifred Wolfcraft: emotional chaos with a side of Pinot Noir. Where are my chocolates?
“Mom, listen, you would love him,” I say, forcing every ounce of enthusiasm into my voice like I’m auditioning for a holiday movie called A Vineyard for Vows. “He’s thoughtful, grounded, loves animals, and—don’t forget—the family ranch.”
My mother hums like she’s already planning our wedding theme in her head. “Does he wear flannel? He has to wear flannel.”
I’m not sure if that’s a genuine requirement or just a coded threat, but I go ahead and embellish.
“He wears flannels and Henleys,” I reassure her, sneaking a glance toward Soren, who’s now leaned one shoulder against the fence, sipping from a matte-black water bottle like he’s watching a trainwreck in slow motion.
I don’t know why I add it, but I do. “He has very sculpted arms. And stubble. He’s hot.”
Soren quirks one brow higher, then slowly looks down at his own biceps, clearly wondering if he’s been roped into my fictional boyfriend’s résumé. Because we both know that Chad doesn’t look anything like I just said.
So I’m not being truthful here, but it’s my mother.
I have to create something that will take her off my back.
Do I have a romantic date coming? Yes, I do.
We’re going to do something special, unique—out of this world.
I’m not sure if those were Chad’s words or mine, but the point is that I have the perfect vineyard up in Aspen.
It’s fall, and it’s the ideal time to go up to the mountains.
“You need to send me pictures of him,” Mom says, practically bouncing through the phone line.
“Pictures . . .” I repeat weakly, opening my camera app and aiming at the glass of wine in my hand like it might magically reflect a fake boyfriend.
We can take pictures of the scenery when we’re up there, but I’m not taking a picture of him. Chad’s pretty skinny. He only lifts keyboards, phones, and the occasional game console.
“You should be more like your sisters,” she says, her voice smoothing into that familiar silk-wrapped blade.
Trish is always broadcasting some power quote from her corner office as if every email signature needs a TED Talk. Liz floods my feed with photos of my new niece—which, to be fair, I adore. And then there’s Chelsea, my sister-in-law, who never misses a chance to show off something or another.
“Did I mention Chelsea just posted pictures from their Cabo trip?” she adds like it’s breaking news. “The kids stayed with me over the weekend.”
“Oh, great. Glenn and Chelsea went to Cabo. How original.” I try not to sound sarcastic or add, Why are the kids always at grandma’s while the parents live the socialite life?
Not to throw shade at my brother and his wife, but sometimes it feels like my parents are raising their children. That should count as some kind of emotional abuse—Mom and Dad can be pretty toxic.
“Yes. You should do that. Go on a weekend trip with Chad. That’s going to be so romantic.”
She’s not even subtle anymore. I can hear her beaming—this is less about romance and more about finally becoming the daughter she’s always wanted. Not that I’m her only one, but obviously, I’ve been slacking according to her goals for me.
“I’m not sure if I can this weekend . . .” I stammer, scrambling for a recovery. “But we’re planning something soon.”
There’s a suspicious pause. “I just checked your social media, and there’s not one picture of you and Chad.”
I choke slightly on my wine. “Excuse me?”
“Why do you have so many cookies on your feed?” she asks, suspicious, like I’ve been laundering money and not playing with flour.
“There are a few cupcakes, too,” I offer quickly, trying to spin. “Listen, Mom, Chad, and I are like one of those couples who make matching sourdough starters and own a golden retriever named Whiskey.”
“You have a dog?”
“Not me, Chad is thinking about getting one, and we’ll call him Whiskey.”
“He sounds perfect.”