Lisa's pov
If anyone had told me that I’d be laughing like a drunk squirrel in a different pack—of all places—I would’ve asked what brand of madness they were sipping.
But here I was, lips stretched in a stupid grin, flour in my hair, an apron that barely reached past my hips, and Calla giggling so hard her knees were nearly giving out. The kitchen smelled like chaos. And burnt sugar. Mostly burnt sugar.
“I told you not to leave the oven on broil!” Calla squealed, fanning the smoke with a wooden spatula that had definitely seen better days.
I covered my face with my hands, trying to hide the evidence of my war crime against what should’ve been perfectly innocent cookies. “You told me after I’d already turned the knob!”
“You didn’t read the label?!”
“There were four knobs, Calla! FOUR
