Myra
The Friday afternoon sun slanted through the front windows of the bakery, illuminating a fine haze of flour dust that seemed to mock how tired I was. We’d just finished the massive weekend prep delivery, and every muscle in my body felt like it had been through a pasta roller.
Everyone was snapping. The air smelled like yeast and short tempers.
"Mac, if you put those cooling racks there one more time, I’m going to bake myself into a turnover just to get some sleep," Tony grumbled. His voice had that gravelly edge it only gets after twelve hours on his feet.
MacKenzie didn't even look up from the massive bowl of dough she was punishing. "Maybe if you didn't leave the sourdough starter in the middle of the prep table, I’d have room to breathe, Tony. Move it or lose it."
I leaned ag
