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Mike Dawson couldn’t stop thinking about meeting Elise last night. An alarm on the cooker cried out, its high-pitched shriek a warning that his biscuits needed to come out. With the rack ready on the kitchen counter, he put his oven mitts on, opened the door and slid out the tray with a dozen biscuits in their holes.
They smelt amazing. His cheesy biscuits always went down well at the garage, his colleagues scoffing them all, usually before lunch. They loved him for keeping them in baked treats once or twice a week. It was the only way he could bake. The mechanics at his garage were the only people in Ridgmont who knew of his prowess in the baking department. His pop wouldn’t have anyone else knowing his son baked as a hobby.
“What smells great in here?” His pop walked in carrying a
