“Hey,” I say with a laugh. “Don’t go getting me sick.”

“Bah. I’m not sick any longer, and if you were going to get sick, it would have already happened. Ooh…What’s that one?”

“Christmas donut. Eggnog flavor with a burnt rum-sugar crust like you’d get on a crème brûlée.”

“Yum.” Fi continues to munch on her bacon donut and speaks around a mouthful of food. “So what’s with all the baking? You channeling Mom?”

Hedging from answering Fiona, I reach for the bottle of red wine on the counter. “Want a glass?” I ask instead.

She eyes me for a moment then shrugs. “Red wine with donuts? Why not?”

I don’t talk until we both have a full glass of wine. “I like baking. It relaxes me.”

“Of course you do. It’s in our blood. I mean, I hate it but…” She grins, her cheeks plumping, before becoming serious. “Seriously, Ivy, why are you cringing like a guilty convict over these donuts?”

I take a sip of wine and glance away. “I realized today that I bake best when I’m tense.”

The kitchen wall clock ticks away as Fi watches me. “You bake a lot, Ivy Weed.”

“I know.” Before me is a sea of donuts, each perfectly frosted. “I’ve always thought that I should join Mom because I was good at baking. I like working with my hands, working the dough and coming up with new flavors. I like feeding people. But lately, I’ve started to think about how I want to live. The thing is, Fi, I want to be excited.”

“And baking doesn’t excite you?” She glances at the donuts.

“It inspires me, makes me feel good. But running a bakery? I hated it.” A flush washes over me as I confess. Because I did hate that part. I’d hated getting up before dawn, always being on my feet, worrying about the store and customers. Before, I’d pushed that concern to the back of my mind, but now it’s too close to ignore.

“So don’t do it.”

Setting my glass down, I start to wipe away a glop of honey glaze on the counter. Fi watches me do it.

“If you don’t want to run one of Mom’s stores,” she asks carefully, “what is it that you want to do? Not that you have to know or anything.”

My fingers curl around the damp rag and I toss it aside. “I don’t know.”

But I do. I just can’t seem to voice what I want because it sounds too crazy. And I’m not ready to face it.

I take a large gulp of my wine, letting the mellow smoothness warm my blood. I feel foolish, frustrated. Doubt creeps over me with sticky feet. Maybe this is just a stupid flight of fancy.

“Mom and Dad are going to think I’ve lost it.”

“Hey,” Fi says softly, “I’ve changed my major about six times in two years.”

“You’re a sophomore. You have time. And you love decorating. Why not do that?”

Absently, she nods. “Yeah, maybe.”

For a moment, we’re silent. Then Fi sets her glass down and reaches for another donut. “I’m gonna regret you,” she says to the donut. “But I can’t seem to care.” Her gaze finds mine. “I’m calling a frat boy I know to pick the bulk of these up before we go into a sugar coma. Then we’re going to celebrate my birthday in style, which will include drinking more wine and telling our deep dark secrets to each other.”

“Fi,” I’m trying not to laugh. “That basically sums up all our nights together.”

“Does not! What we drink and eat always varies.”

I grin and start packing up the donuts.

Much, much later, we find ourselves sprawled on my bed among the copious throw pillows. The wine has been ditched in favor of mojitos, and my head is swimming.

“Red wine makes me sleepy,” I complain.

“It’s my birthday. You can’t fall asleep.” Fi rolls over and glares at me.

“Mmmhmmm.” My lids grow heavy. I start to drift off, but that strange restless feeling returns as soon as my mind wanders. I think I might be coming down with a cold. But that’s not what’s bugging me now. “Fi?”

“What?” she mumbles, her face stuffed into a pillow.

“Can a person…I don’t know…be oversexed when they aren’t having any sex?” The instant the words are out of my mouth my face flames and I want to call them back. As it is, they hang over our heads, dancing around like mocking pixies as Fi’s mouth drops open.

Her stare drills into me, and I resist the urge to squirm. Before I break, she shrugs, all casual as if I haven’t blurted out something ridiculous. “Explain.”

I don’t want to. My big mouth has gotten me in enough trouble. But mojitos have made me warm and loosened my tongue. “God, Fi, where to begin? I think about sex. All the time now.” About cocks. Pushing into me. Filling me up. Sliding into my mouth. Hell. “My breasts feel heavy, my nipples…let’s not talk about those.” It brings back the restlessness, makes them tingle, and I cuddle the throw pillow closer. It doesn’t shut me up, though.

“I ache. So much that my lower belly hurts. Hell, my freaking thighs feel hot.” Annoyed now, I slap a hand against the mattress. “I find myself dreaming of running my thumbs along those grooves on a guy’s abdomen. The ones formed by those muscles right over their hips. You know the ones? That form a V.” My mouth actually waters thinking about them now.