"How to linger at someone else's house in the middle of the night, or how to seduce another woman's boyfriend?"
Oliver froze for a beat, irritation flashing behind his eyes.
"What nonsense are you spouting?"
"I mean you should learn from how willing Instructor Henson is to put thought into things for me."
"Those love-confession cakes that are popular online right now? She made me one the other day. I liked it."
"This year, you're making me one too."
He paused, his gaze settling on me, steady and unblinking.
"Didn't you say birthdays should be spent with the person who matters most?"
"So Instructor Henson and I will eat the cake you make. Consider that you celebrating with me."
The moment the words left his mouth, my hand flew to cover my mouth, choking down the wave of nausea.
"Bringing this up now—you don't find that the least bit ironic?"
I still remembered. Every detail.
Four years ago, Oliver with his arm around another woman, not caring who saw.
His friends egging him on, and him smashing the cream cake I'd baked myself onto the floor, face dark, dropping a single line:
"Don't bring out something this unfit for the table again."
Every stare in the room hit me at once, hard as thrown stones.