Anthony
The dough didn’t lie. That was the first thing Aunt Dot had taught me when I was barely tall enough to see over the industrial mixer. If you were angry, the bread came out tough. If you were rushing, it wouldn’t rise. You had to be honest with the flour, or it wouldn't be honest with you.
I slammed the massive mound of sourdough onto the floured prep table, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the 5:00 AM silence of the kitchen. Around me, other sweets and treats were prepped and waiting for their turn in the old ovens.
Upstairs, I heard the faint creak of a floorboard.
Myra.
My chest tightened, a familiar ache that had nothing to do with the heavy lifting and everything to do with the woman who was probably currently staring at a World’s Best Tutor mug. I knew I was playing w
