I smell the sugar before I hit the foyer—sweet and toasty with a hint of something singed—and follow it to the kitchen.
They’re at the island when I walk in: Caterina flour-dusted and smug, Elena waving around a rubber spatula. A sheet pan cools on the counter, a graveyard of dark circles. Smoke snakes out of the cracked oven door.
I stop, take it in, and the first smile I’ve had all afternoon happens without permission.
Elena sees it and narrows her eyes. “Don’t.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, and I absolutely would. “What have we here?”
“Evidence,” Caterina answers, flicking flour off her fingers. “Your girlfriend can’t bake.”
Elena points the spatula at her. “I used to be average at cookies.”
“Average at buying cookies, maybe,” Caterina says.
“Traitor,” Elena mutters, but she’s fighting a grin. She’s in a soft T-shirt that stretches comfortably over her bump. It’s really grown over the past couple of months, and I feel something warm turn over in my chest every time I see her.
I cross to the tray and pick up a cookie. “Almond?” I ask.
“Elena’s mom’s recipe,” Caterina says. “Attempt three.”
Elena’s mouth flattens. “Technically, attempt two. The first one was a trial run.”
“A trial run on cookies?” Caterina puts her hands on her hips. “I don’t think so.”
I bite delicately. It tastes like charcoal. “Mmm,” I say solemnly. “Hints of campfire. Bold finish of… uh…”
“Shut up,” she says, but it’s amused. She eyes the tray like it personally offended her. “I followed the card. Half the dough isfine, and then the last tray decides to self-immolate. How does that even happen?”
“You turned the oven up,” Caterina says, because of course she did. “Because you’re impatient.”
“I nudged it,” Elena argues. “The recipe says ten to twelve minutes, and after ten they were pale.”
“That’s what cooling racks are for,” Caterina says. “They keep baking after they come out.”
“That doesn’t even make any sense! How can they keep bakingout of the oven?” Elena slumps against the counter, one hand on her lower back. “This is ridiculous. Children make cookies.”
“Not very well,” I say wisely, though we both know it’s a lie. I come around the island to kiss her temple. She smells like sugar and a barbecue pit. “You’re on a high-stakes mission.”
She leans into me for half a second and then pulls back to glare at the oven. “We wanted to have them ready when you got home.”
“Oh?” I look at Caterina.
“She wanted to make them,” Caterina says, palms up. “I offered supervision. Then I answered two texts and came back to a crematorium.”
Elena covers her face with the spatula hand and groans. A streak of flour paints her cheek. It shouldn’t make my chest ache, but it does.
“Okay,” I say, clapping once. “We autopsy the fallen, honor their sacrifice, and try again.”
Elena peeks at me through her fingers. “You’re not helping.”
“I am helping,” I say, digging a nearly acceptable cookie from a cooling rack behind the disaster tray. “This one is edible.”
“Edible doesn’t meet the standard.” She taps the recipe card on the counter with the spoon. I recognize the handwriting—loopy and certain. Her mother’s. The sight makes me put the almost-cookie down.
“You’ll get them right,” I tell her.
Her mouth softens. Then she straightens and points the spatula at Caterina again. “Fine. Coach me.”
