“That six-tier monstrosity the pastry chef spent all day on is yours?” I gave her a once-over. “Got a deadly allergy I should know about?” “Why? Are you going to try and kill me? Death by cinnamon. At least it’d be a sweet way to go,” she sighed. Cinnamon. Something clicked. I’d helped my mom make her sweet empanadas enough times to know what went in the apple filling. Was there even the slightest chance that the picky princess wasn’t as terrible as I’d imagined for the last year? I passed her back the Carrick bend knot, laying it on her thigh. “Happy birthday, Ice Queen.” She stared at the
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