Gabriela
Smoke billows out of the oven when I pull it open, choking the air around me while I fan it away with a towel. The window over the sink is already open and hopefully sucking out all of the air.
My poor pan is black by the time I finally get my hands on it, pull it out of the oven, and set it down on the stovetop. The crust—or what's left of it—is completely charred, the pattern I'd painstakingly cut out with a butter knife practically unrecognizable.
"s**t," I mutter to myself, tossing the towel down onto the counter next to it.
That's what I get for trying to be some kind of housewife and making Aaron something for when he gets home. The entire time I'd been cutting out pieces of the crust to lay over the pie, my stomach was filled with butterflies, nervous for his reaction w
