The scent of butter and sugar filled the kitchen, warm and sweet, wrapping the room in the kind of comfort only baking could provide. Isabelle stood at the counter, wrestling with a mixing bowl that seemed determined to fight back. Flour dusted the front of her blouse, and at some point, a streak of melted chocolate had ended up on her cheek — though she hadn’t noticed it yet.
Across the room, Sophia leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the scene with no small amount of amusement. “This,” she said, her eyes sparkling, “is starting to feel like a personal attack on baking.”
Isabelle shot her a glare, stirring the batter with more force than strictly necessary. “I didn’t hear you offering to help.”
“I am helping,” Sophia said sweetly, stealing a piece of chocolate from the c
