Max
I stared down at the cookbook and groaned.
“Son of a b***h,” I muttered.
Not only had I forgotten to add the butter, but I’d put in five tablespoons of flour instead of teaspoons. I picked up the bowl and upended it over the trashcan. Thirty minutes of mixing and measuring and whisking, all down the drain.
“Sum a b***h,” Dylan muttered as she struggled to get hold of a rogue Cheerio on her tray.
I let out a groan and bent low until we were eye to eye. “Please, do Daddy a favor and don’t tell Addison where you picked that up from, okay, pumpkin?”
Her eyes lit up and she laughed. “Assin?”
My heart beat double-time and I tickled her chin. “Did you say Addison? Say it again. Addison.”
“Assin,” she chortled back gleefully.
Okay, so maybe my raspberry soufflé was in the shitter, but
