“What are those?" Ryker asked.
On the table were three large shot glasses, filled with vodka and topped with a spurt of whipped cream and sprinkles.
"Pancakes." I took one of the glasses, ready to knock it back.
"Dani, those are not pancakes," Ryker said, leaning forward to smell them. "That is vodka."
"Potato pancakes," I said, and I knocked mine back. "Don't judge a family tradition, it's a long story and you can't tell me I don't need a shot or three after what I went through."
He didn't looked impressed. "You drink as much as Gavin.”