Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Soren
Instead of saying something right away, I head back inside and pour two glasses of wine.
Winnifred’s going to need one of them. Possibly both.
When I come back out, she’s still on her deck—legs crossed, phone in hand, defiance in posture. Thankfully, she’s not screaming. Or crying. No mascara streaks, no sobbing.
She’s just . . . processing the only way she knows: loudly but in silence. That’s a very Winnifred thing to do.
I pause at the threshold, lean against the doorframe, and really look at her.
Winnifred Wolfcraft, in all her post-breakup glory.
She’s barefoot, wrapped in a cable-knit cardigan that might’ve once belonged to an ex or a thrift store grandpa—same effect either way.
Her hair’s twisted into one of those messy topknots that looks accidental but took effort, and her face is set in this focused scowl that says she’s on a mission.
Probably trying to fix this “minor inconvenience” the only way she knows how—by overplanning it to death and pretending it’s content.
She sits curled up in that dusty rose Adirondack chair she spray-painted over the summer. Sorry, not pink—sunset aesthetic. She gave me a full TED Talk on the difference when I called it “bubblegum Barbie hell.” I think she forgave me—eventually.
Right now, she’s furiously typing into her Notes app like she’s drafting a cease-and-desist letter addressed to the entire male species.
So, as I said, she’s spiraling.
I can already predict the next few moves. She’ll ghost the Wolfcrafts for the next couple of holidays to avoid the inquiries. She’ll host Friendsgiving out of spite. And by December, she’ll invent a mysterious long-distance boyfriend named Jonah who rescues turtles off the coast of Maine.
Honestly? I look forward to her pivots.
I might complain about her—often—but I also haven’t been bored around her in all these years.
I don’t say anything yet.
But she feels me.
Her spine straightens, fingers freezing mid-rant. She doesn’t look at me, but the shift in energy is unmistakable. She’s waiting for it. The gloating. The lecture. The I told you so, but I say nothing.
I lean against the railing of my deck, sip from my glass, and let her flail in peace.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she mutters eventually, not looking up.
“Do you?” I raise an eyebrow she can’t see.
“You’re going to say this is exactly what you warned me about.”
I shrug. “Nope.”
“No?” She peeks over, suspicious. “You’re not going to gloat?”
“I don’t need to. Chad did that all on his own.”
Her mouth twitches. She’s trying not to laugh, but she knows I’m right.
“He wore chainmail, Soren.”
“I saw.”
“He called me his tavern wench.”
I nod solemnly. “That’s hard to recover from.”
She lets out a breathy half-laugh, half-sigh. “I really thought I was winning this time. I had the robe. The Napa fantasy. The whole weekend was plotted in my calendar as a vision board comes to life.”
“And instead?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“He offered me a turkey leg, and since I refused, all I have is an emotional breakdown.”
“Sounds . . . rustic.”
She groans and drops her head into her hands. “This is so humiliating.”
I lean a little farther over the railing. I could easily cross the space between us. It’s just a few feet. One step. But that would mean entering her territory—and I’ve seen what happens to people who do that uninvited. She’ll absorb me and make me one of hers.
“So, you gonna post about it?” I ask.
She pauses. “I could . . . but it’d have to be cryptic. Maybe a blurry sunset photo with an emo song playing in the background.”
“Do people still use the word emo?”
She shakes her head. “Probably not. But I want to bring it back. Let’s make it retro.”
“You’re unraveling.”
“Let me focus,” she says, waving her phone like a wand. “This post might be the emotional collapse that launches my personal brand.”
“Bold strategy.” I sip my wine. “Want an ‘I told you so’ in the comments or just a passive-aggressive emoji?”
She finally looks up. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes a little glassy—but dry. Still holding it together, but barely.
I walk the few steps to the edge of her deck and hand her the second glass without a word. She takes it like she’s not sure if it’s peace or pity in liquid form but drinks it anyway.
“If you ever comment on one of my emotional posts, I’ll block you,” she says flatly.
I lift my glass in mock surrender. “Duly noted.”
She exhales a soft, tired sound. “You’re going to be here all weekend?”
I nod. “Unless my house burns down.”
She leans back with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Then I’m baking all weekend. And you’re legally required to eat everything.”
“If that’s the case, I might need my lawyer to look over that contract.” Then stop and give her a thoughtful look. “You’ll be sending it in writing, right?”
“I’m going to need a grocery run and emotional support.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that code for ‘buy more butter’ or . . .?”
She smiles—barely. But it’s . . . I’m not sure.
Though it knocks something loose in my chest, I’m not ready to examine it just yet.
Obviously, I need to change gears. This is uncomfortable.
Which reminds me—I have my own disaster to solve.
And unfortunately, she’s the only person I trust to help me pull it off.
After all, she has a lot of experience with this.
So, I clear my throat. “On an unrelated note . . .” I rub the back of my head.
She eyes me with immediate suspicion. “Unrelated how, exactly?”
“I might need a favor.”
Her gaze narrows like she’s reading terms and conditions she knows are shady. “You?” then she points at herself. “From me?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Wow. With that kind of enthusiasm, how can I not jump in headfirst?” She sets down her glass and tossing me a mock gasp. “I can’t wait to say, ‘No way in hell, grouchy pants.’”
Her eyes lit up, that near-smile curling at the corners of her mouth like it’s trying to break free. And, fuck, I hate to admit that I like it.
“Doubtful.” I swallow the grin that wants to slip. “You’ll get a kick out of this one.”
She leans forward slightly. “Is it bakery-related? Because I just updated the logo, and if you dare say you still like the name Tiny Crimes of Batter—”
“It’s not about the bakery.”
“Oh, what did you do, Soren?” she groans, leaning back like she’s bracing for impact. “Is it about your plants? Did something die again? Did you overwater the ficus?”
“I don’t have a ficus.”
“That’s exactly what someone with a dead ficus would say.”
I stare at her. “Freddy.”
She raises a brow at the nickname, but I plow ahead anyway. “I need you to either come up with a believable excuse for me to avoid visiting my family this weekend . . . or find me a fake girlfriend.”
She blinks. Once. Twice. Then she laughs—loud and unfiltered, head tossed back like I just offered her the punchline to a stand-up set. It’s a full-on-from-the-gut-snort-worthy laughter.
“I should be insulted,” she gasps between giggles, “because you called me Freddy—which I do not endorse—but . . .”
She pretends to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye, still smiling. “You do realize this is going to bite you in the ass, right?”
I meet her gaze.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I murmur. “But I’ve got a feeling . . . if anyone’s gonna make it hurt, it’ll be you.”
And she smiles again, this time, full-force.
“Oh my God. Is this a setup? Did Aunt Nell put you up to this? Is this karma?” She shakes her head. “No, it’s some kind of setup. The universe and my mother. . .”
She pauses and starts walking along the small deck. Her face splits into a grin that is entirely too delighted. “You, Mister I-Live-Alone-and-Like-It-That-Way, you need a fake date?”
I sigh. “Please don’t make it sound like we need a documentary.”
She leans forward, giddy now. “Does this involve wardrobe coordination? A backstory?”
“I’d prefer if you could come up with a good way to avoid my family,” I stop her before she drags out material to create an entire scrapbook. “Just need one of those stories you concoct. No drama.”
Winnifred shakes her head. “I don’t agree, but tell me why you need this, and I’ll make it better for you.”
She’s going to make this so much worse before it gets better.
And the worst part?
I already know I’m going to let her.
Because even when she’s unhinged and unpredictable . . . she makes it kind of worth it.