Outside the entrance, Gavin grabs the microphone.
“Sorry about that folks. Had some problems with the entertainers, was supposed to be a murder mystery, but ended up being a murder mix-up, so just continue enjoying your meals as Torrie and I cut the cake.
As we stride toward the corner where our goliath of a cake stands, I squeeze Gavin’s hand.
“You really know how to give a convincing speech.”
We pause, listen as the murmur in the dining room slowly builds to conversation.
He shrugs, smiles.
“I’ve had a bit of practice.”
Now at the 10-layer pink and white frosted cake, Gavin cuts me an insanely big piece.
He dismisses my protests with the explanation that, “It’s for both of us.”
Once we’re back at our table, however, Gavin is only too happy to feed me pretty much all of it, until
