Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Winnifred
“You can’t mean that,” I say, because seriously—he can’t just say things like that and expect me not to short-circuit. I know it sounds redundant, but my brain is doing the conversational equivalent of buffering, and I need time to catch up.
“I don’t fucking know, okay?” he growls, that low, frayed sound he makes when I’ve properly exasperated him. But this time? It doesn’t feel like I’m the one making him unravel. He sounds lost in something I’m not part of yet.
I could ask. I could push. But I’ve got my own internal dumpster fire to manage. The kiss . . . we can figure that out after we handle my family.
“My mother knows.”
He blinks. “Excuse me?”
As if I just casually dropped a confession in fluent Cantonese and he’s forgotten he barely passed Spanish II.
“My. Mother. Knows. That. We’re. Dating,” I enunciate, pausing between each word like I’m breaking bad news to a toddler.
“And not only that—she wants us at her house for brunch tomorrow. She’s furious your mother learned about us first. Says it’s ‘humiliating’ and ‘borderline betrayal,’ and I quote, ‘this is why no one trusts you to bring the salad for potlucks.’”
Honestly, I thought it was because I came from another state, and bringing food didn’t seem realistic. But let’s not digress about their lack of faith in my abilities to do anything.
“She wants us to have brunch?” Soren’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.
“Yes. Tomorrow morning. Full family attendance. She might not forgive me unless I name our first child after her.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What if it’s a boy?”
“Soren.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Focus. There’s no children—no babies.”
“You thought you were pregnant?”
And of course, right then—because the universe is nothing but vindictive—his cousin, I think her name is Helena, glides past, pausing mid-sip of champagne with the slow, snaky grace of someone who lives for this shit.
“I’m sorry, what now?” she says, eyes going wide with curiosity and the exact wrong amount of joy. “You’re expecting a baby?”
“No one’s pregnant.” My voice comes too high-pitched.
Soren shrugs. “Not yet.”
“Don’t,” I say, pointing at him. That comeback was locked and loaded—perfect for one of our usual back-and-forths. But right now? We do not need to toss more wood onto the dumpster fire around us. “Not another word. She’s about to announce this to your family.”
I know this because Helena’s already pulling out her phone.
Soren groans before turning his attention to her. “I swear to God, Helena if you text the family group chat—”
“Too late, Soren,” Helena sing-songs, already typing faster than anyone should with acrylics that long. “This is totally worthy of the family chat.”
Honestly, I don’t think I’m liking this Helena character. Is she really a Thorn? I don’t remember her being part of the town, but . . . yeah, this whole show and now telling people I’m pregnant is not funny.
She holds up her phone proudly like she’s just dropped an Oscar-winning performance into the group chat. “You’re welcome for the plot twist no one saw coming.
Soren groans and yanks his phone out of his jacket pocket. “Helena, I swear . . .”
He swipes the screen, shows it to me, and—
“Oh no.” He closes his eyes briefly. “It’s already happening.”
I glance at his phone, and there it is.
Thorn Family Group Chat
Helena: Winnifred thought she was pregnant.
Aunt Millie: WHAT???
Uncle Patrick: Jesus, Soren. You just started dating.
Grandma Rita: Is this a joke, or do I need to start knitting?
Daisy: This explains the kiss.
And a notification with another message bubble appears, and Soren winces before it even fully loads.
Mom: CALL. ME. I just told you she’s a Wolfcraft. We can’t relate to them.
I cover my mouth, half-laughing, half-dying. “I told you she didn’t like us, but you wouldn’t believe me, Soren Capulet.”
“Montague,” he corrects me.
I wave a hand. “It’s all the same. We’re sworn enemies.”
His expression flattens. “I haven’t seen this many consecutive text bubbles since I accidentally used the group thread to RSVP to a wake.”
“You didn’t.”
“That’s how I thought they wanted it, and I included a gif.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper, horrified. “You need someone to fix your image.”
His phone dings again.
He reads it, then groans like it physically hurts. “My mom’s asking if she should bring a rosary.”
“For what?” I gape at him. “To bless the baby or banish me from the family line?”
He shrugs. “Could go either way.”
I pace in a tight circle, waving my hands like I’m trying to stir the air back into logic. “You need to respond. Fix it. Lie. Blame Helena’s thirst for drama or say she hit the wine table too hard—something.”
“She’s not drunk.”
“I’m not pregnant,” I shriek. “It’s all about optics. No one cares what’s real—they care about what plays well over prosecco and pastry. Send a bomb, and let’s go. We’ve hijacked your sister’s engagement party enough.”
Another buzz. Another sigh.
He holds up his phone. “It’s from Grandma Rita.”
Grandma Rita: I already ordered the yarn so I can start the blanket. Lavender and gray. Very gender neutral.
“Oh my God.” I slap a hand over my mouth. “This is escalating faster than my last spiral, and that one involved Google searches, a dream journal, and a deeply inappropriate horoscope.”
We speed-walk toward the car like we’re escaping a crime scene.
His phone buzzes again.
“Mom’s sending pregnancy brunch menu suggestions now,” he mutters.
“For who? The imaginary fetus?”
I snatch the phone. “No smoked salmon, caffeine-free teas, herbal infusions, gluten-free muffins? Are we catering for a delicate duchess or a fake pregnancy?”
“We’re having brunch with my mother, remember?” I snap, glaring at him. “I can’t fail her again. She’s terrifying.”
“No, we’re having brunch with my family.” He doesn’t even blink but adds, “Your mother is terrifying, sure. But my mom just booked a side of salmon and texted the church to check baptism availability.”
Another ding.
Grandma Rita: Do we need to move the wedding up?
I stop short. “I think she means your wedding.”
Soren tilts his head at me. “Honestly? I’m impressed. This is faster than when Daisy got caught in the wine cellar with her calculus tutor.”
“I’m going to pass out,” I mutter, hand over my chest. “I’m having a full-blown mental collapse in heels.”
We reach the car, and I’m seconds from crawling inside and refusing to come out like ever.
“You need to fix this,” I say, stabbing a finger in his direction. “Your cousin launched a PR scandal, and now your whole family thinks we’re one pee stick and a gift registry away from pastel onesies and monogrammed bibs.”
He blinks, then smiles. Smiles.
“Soren. I swear to God—”
“If we survive brunch without a surprise nursery reveal or shotgun wedding announcement, I’ll call it a win.”
I groan. “We’re going to be those people. The fake couple with the imaginary baby and—”
“—the very real sexual tension,” he finishes, voice low and way too satisfied for someone whose family just emotionally bulldozed me.
I slide into the car as he opens the door for me. “Fix. It.”
“I’ll try,” he says, far too relaxed. “But you’re coming to brunch. So if we go down, we go down together.”
He’s wrong, we’re going to my parents. I’m not doing this again with the Thorns . . . do I even want to do it with my family?
“We’ll discuss that later. Get me out of here,” I mutter something so blasphemous it might get me excommunicated and wish I had a full bottle of wine in my purse—pregnancy rumors be damned.