Ashley
I stared at the warzone that was once a kitchen, my hands on my hips, a damp dishcloth dangling forgotten from my fingers. A fine dusting of flour coated every surface like a post-apocalyptic snowfall, a sticky residue of what was supposed to be pancake batter clung to the backsplash, and the smell of burnt-something-or-other still lingered in the air.
“This,” I declared, gesturing dramatically at the chaos, “is a culinary crime scene.”
Hayden had the decency to look sheepish. He was leaning against the opposite counter, a smudge of flour on his cheekbone that I had an almost overwhelming urge to wipe away, almost. He ran a hand through his already messy hair, making it stand up in even more endearing, frustrating tufts.
“I was trying to do something special,” he mumbled.
“Hay
