Baking Cookies for Unexpected Visitors
I glared into the oven. The lumps of dough refused to flatten and crisp like the prebaked ones I always bought. But the oatmeal raisin was completely sold out, and I had to have this cookie today. If only the recipe I’d Googled had more instruction than “until golden” for the baking process. What even was golden for a cookie?
“Just a little patience, Ms. Cursor.” Gracie shuddered like a mouse discovered by a cat.
Three months as my assistant, and she still looked terrified of me. Didn’t have a clue why, but I certainly couldn’t ask.
Molding Personal Secrets for a Volatile Public
Kneading the ductile dough took my mind off the chaos. My phone continued to ring, demanding a response. As did the news anchors filming the protests. Anarchy reigned on a Monday afternoon.
The front door opened and shut with a definitive slam. Shoes clipped across the wood floor in the foyer, every step producing a bead of sweat. Barnaby came around the corner, cheeks flushed and thick curls plastered to his face.
I slammed the dough on the powdered counter. “Don’t ask me. I don’t know.”