Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Soren
This day has been . . . unpredictable. In the same way that skydiving without a parachute is technically an adventure.
Did I have fun at the vineyard?
Weirdly—yes.
Surprisingly, it wasn’t a disaster. It was more than manageable after Winnifred stopped taking what were objectively the world’s most perfect pictures of us.
No faces, all golden-hour silhouettes and blurry laughs and two wine glasses clinking like we were in a slow-mo champagne commercial—her words.
It was a sort of aesthetic that influencers caption “just us, just vibes” while tagging their management agency in lowercase italics.
None of the photos made it online. None of me did, at least. And I appreciated that more than she probably realized. I’m not a social media guy. My digital footprint could file for witness protection, and no one would notice—and I plan to keep it that way.
But the vineyard?
Winnifred made it easy. She was warm, quick-witted, and didn’t try too hard.
She didn’t ask me to explain my job or, my childhood trauma or my five-year plan.
She just sipped her wine, leaned into my side when the breeze picked up and made fun of the wine guy who insisted the rosé had “notes of emotional intimacy.” And when she smiled—really smiled—I felt something in my chest shift in a way that didn’t feel entirely like mine anymore.
Once the mission was over, we headed back to the hotel to change. And now . . . when we arrived at the engagement party, all the quiet ease we’d built over the last few hours evaporated the second we stepped into the party.
Not because of the venue—it’s my home, the place where I grew up.
Okay, that in itself makes it awkward and unwelcome.
But then add that the moment I step onto the stone path lined with towering floral arrangements and string lights so perfectly arranged they look like someone hired a team of overachieving wedding stylists with a God complex, and I regret every decision that’s led me here.
This doesn’t look like a simple engagement party. It’s more like a wedding that hasn’t signed the paperwork yet.
There’s a string quartet playing. Candlelit tables covered in custom-printed menus. Servers in crisp black uniforms pass around truffle arancini like we’re at a fundraiser.
“This is . . . are you sure it’s an engagement party?” Win asks, her brows doing that sarcastic little arch that says, Babe, we took a wrong turn, and we might as well go home.
“That’s what my mother said over the phone.” Right before…” I made a series of deeply stupid decisions I now have to carry like an emotional hangover.
“Right before what?” she asks, cocking her head suspiciously.
“It’s not important.”
“The only way this relationship is going to survive is if we’re honest with each other, Thorn.” She draws out my last name like it’s both a warning and a dare.
I look at her, unsure what she wants from me. Is this part of the fake relationship method? A trick to pull me into confession?
Or maybe she’s serious.
I don’t get a chance to decide because just then, I hear it: “Soren,” a familiar voice trills, loud enough to send a tremor through all the champagne flutes within a five-mile radius. “You’re actually here. And Mom was right—you did bring a plus-one.”
My sister, Daisy, appears like she’s entering a Vogue spread, not her own engagement party.
Her dress doesn’t beg for attention—it simply assumes the room belongs to her.
Her phone’s in one hand, a dangerously pink cocktail in the other, and somehow, she’s still got that smile that says, I love you.
Liam follows behind her, perfectly pressed and oozing polite superiority.
Her fiancé. Her soon-to-be husband. The same guy who once tried to teach me tennis while I was visiting in the Hamptons while subtly explaining—without saying it out loud—that he’s better at everything, including sportsmanship, fashion, and probably foreplay.
“Winnifred,” I say, placing a hand on her back—a small move, but it’s enough to let her know I’ve got her. “This is my sister, Daisy. And this is Liam, her fiancé.”
Daisy’s eyes sparkle like she’s already planning a dinner party, where this moment will be the opening anecdote. “You’re the girlfriend?” she says, tilting her head as if she’s just discovered a long-lost painting that might be valuable in her garage. “You look familiar.”
Winnifred tilts her head right back, matching her tone with a smile that could slice diamonds. “Familiar?” she echoes. “As in, we locked eyes across a boutique in SoHo last summer, or you used to strategically avoid the library during recess while I was alphabetizing the fiction section for fun?”
Oof. That one lands hard—too hard. I glance at her, then at Daisy, wondering if my sister was casually cruel to her back in high school. I wouldn’t know. I was already long gone from Winterberry Cove by then, too busy pretending New York internships made me grown-up.
Before the awkwardness has time to settle in, another voice chimes in—one I didn’t expect.
“Winnifred, darling, I didn’t expect to see you here—or in town,” says Mrs. Rogers, the librarian, as she approaches us with the enthusiasm of someone who actually likes small talk. “How are you, sweetie? Does your mom know you’re—”
“In Winterberry Cove?” Winnifred cuts in, smile still polite but now teetering toward brittle. “Nope, and I’d prefer if she didn’t. It’s just a quick trip. Wouldn’t want to trouble her with something as frivolous as my presence.”
Mrs. Rogers laughs, clearly missing the subtext. “Well, it’s so good to see you. You look radiant. Colorado suits you.”
“Must be the honey treatments—every night before bed.” Winnifred deadpans, lips tugging into a perfect, practiced smile. Her fingers twitch slightly where they brush mine like she’s barely holding onto the script.
And fuck me, I hate how much I notice that.
“Well, call your mom,” Mrs. Rogers insists, tone shifting from nosy to downright maternal. “She worries about you.”
Winnifred gives a breezy wave, all flutter, and charm. “I will,” she lies so casually, I almost believe her.
Of course, this woman seems to have found some kind of bone that she doesn’t want to let go. It’s juicy, and as if this isn’t already a little tricky, my grandmother approaches us. Fuck, we haven’t been here for more than five minutes, and I definitely feel attacked by karma.
“Soren, dear, you made it,” she says to me, then her gaze shifts to Winnifred.
Her whole face lights up like it’s Christmas, and someone just brought her the best cinnamon rolls of her life.
“Oh my goodness,” she exclaims, reaching out to clasp Winnifred’s hand between both of hers.
“You’re that sweet girl from the bakery.
Always helping Mrs. Greaves on Sunday mornings. Freddy, is it?”
Winnifred stiffens just for a second. Then smiles like someone who’s both surprised and flattered and completely cornered.
“Yes, ma’am,” she says. “I used to help out whenever she needed the extra hands.”
My grandmother beams. “I knew I recognized you. You were always so polite. Always wore those darling little aprons. And you had that one braid—remember?” She nudges me with an elbow. “And now look at you two. Together.”
Winnifred doesn’t correct her. She leans in slightly, tucking her shoulder beneath mine like it’s second nature.
“How did this happen?” Grandma asks, eyes bright with curiosity and just enough glee to signal she will be repeating this story to her bridge group by Tuesday.
And then, like some cruel cosmic joke, someone else picks up the thread with way too much enthusiasm. “Yes. Tell us the story.”
Fuck. I don’t even know who said it—Mrs. Rogers again?
Daisy? One of my aunts? There are too many faces, all blurred together in a glittering fog of catered hors d’oeuvres, champagne bubbles, and judgment.
I can’t tell if it’s real or if I’m just being haunted by the ghost of every impulsive decision I’ve made since puberty.
Winnifred turns to me slowly, her brow lifting just enough to say, “You better deliver.”
Me? Deliver?
What the fuck am I supposed to say? She’s the one with the stories, not me.
Obviously, this is my fault. Yesterday I was too fucking desperate, and here we are? That probably doesn’t go with the aesthetic of full in love and fall in the vineyards that she’s been trying to accomplish, will it?
That probably doesn’t fit her “fall in love in a vineyard, lit by string lights and sexual tension” aesthetic, does it?
Still, there’s no escape. So I channel the most Winnifred version of myself I can manage—sarcastic, charming, just enough bite—and clear my throat. “Right. The story.” I snatch a champagne flute off a passing tray like it’s emotional support and take a long sip.
“Well. It started like any other. Boy meets girl, you know—except we then realize that we kinda knew each other.” I shrug like ‘what can you do, it was destiny.’
Winnifred immediately rolls her eyes and subtly shifts her stance like she’s about to launch into a TED Talk called Lies I’ve Told at Vineyard Engagement Parties: A Cautionary Tale.
“There was more to it than that, I swear.” She sighs wistfully and stares off into the crowd like she’s seeing a dramatic montage. “It was early spring. I was standing in the produce aisle. Alone. Heartbroken. Holding a single lemon.”
A lemon.
Daisy frowns. “A lemon?”
“Why?” someone asks.
Yeah. Why the fuck was she holding a lemon?
She shrugs one shoulder, graceful as ever. “Symbolism. I felt . . . acidly lonely, a little bitter, you know? Probably the lack of vitamin D and a good adventure.”
The crowd laughs. She leans her head on my shoulder, and I freeze like someone just activated my inner panic switch.
“And then,” she says dramatically, with a wistful smile that’s almost too good, “he appeared.”
I blink. “Did I?”
“Did he ask you out then?” someone else shouts.