Jerk.
After a fortifying sip, I reminded myself to not be goaded by Archer’s infuriating snark. That was the entire reason we were here in the first place. If only I’d resisted the urge to argue with him last night, I’d be cozy in bed right now.
“Time’s wasting.” Bab summoned us. “I made the gingerbread,” she said, gesturing to several large baking trays. “Last one is still in the oven. Let it cool when it’s done.”
She pulled out a piece of paper and flattened it on the marble countertop. “Here is the icing recipe. Everything is here that you need. Start with that and then assemble the gazebo. Once it hardens, you can come back and decorate.”
“How do we know which pieces go where?” I wondered, gazing down the row of trays filled with different shapes of gingerbread.
“You’ll figure it out,” she answered.
“Is there a guide?” Archer pressed.
Bab reached into her ruffle-trimmed apron and pulled out a photograph. “I took this photo when I finished it.” She narrowed her eyes. “Before you boys broke it.”
She laid the photo in front of us, and I felt guilty all over again. It really was a beautiful piece. Clearly, she worked hard on it.
“You can use it,” she said as a timer went off across the room. “I have work.”
“Wait,” I called.
She didn’t wait. “I have to get these pastries made fresh. People will be here for breakfast soon.”
I looked at Archer. He seemed about as confident as I was, but I didn’t call to Bab again. She did have her own work to do, and this was our mistake to fix.
I picked up the paper with the icing recipe and read over the ingredients and instructions while raising my mug. The antler on the top stabbed me in the eye, and I jerked back.
Archer laughed.
Guess I should have gone with the snowman mug. Less dangerous.
“Get the mixer with the whisk attachment,” I said, pointing to a shelf where the large appliance sat.
“Who put you in charge?”
My eyes snapped up. “Would you rather find the pasteurized egg whites and powdered sugar?”
“I’ll get the mixer.”
“That’s what I thought,” I concurred.
After gathering what we needed and a brief lesson from Bab about cream of tartar, we started adding the ingredients into the large stainless-steel bowl.
“Wait!” I exclaimed as Archer lowered the whisk toward the bowl before I was finished adding in the confectioner’s sugar. “I need more.”
“Hurry up already,” he grumbled, pausing so I could add the rest.
Once it was added, he dropped the whisk in and switched it on. White powder flew up and burst in a cloud all over him. He flinched and spluttered, looking down at himself in shock.
I laughed, looking at the white coating clinging to his beard, the collar of his flannel, and both his arms. Unamused, he flipped the mixer off and laughed more as he waved away the haze of sugar floating in front of his face.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was going to do that?” he grumped.
“How was I supposed to know?” I asked innocently.
“Impatient,” Bab called.
“I wonder if we should add more to the bowl?” I considered. “Because a lot of it is on you.”
