“Hold onto that, buddy. We are taking the pastry.”
Mom let out a gasp of profound offense. “The pie, too? Honestly, Rupert, the pie hasn’t committed any sins.”
“Happy birthday, Grandma.”
For a moment, a shadow of genuine shame flickered across my mother’s face. She looked down at the uneven, childlike handwriting.
Then Brooke ruined it. “You’re deliberately trying to upset her, Rupert. Just leave.”
I pulled the heavy oak door open. The biting wind rushed into the warm foyer. “It’s thirty degrees out there. I would absolutely loathe for anyone in this family to experience a moment of discomfort.”
We walked out into the biting chill, the heavy door clicking shut behind us.
We claimed a vinyl booth in the corner. Owen ordered a double bacon cheeseburger. Because, as far as I was concerned, being ostracized by your own bloodline legally qualified dessert as breakfast.
