“You made biscuits?” she asked, incredulous.
“No,” Ellis said. “He burned them.”
“I don’t understand what I did wrong. I followed the recipe.”
“Let me see.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I’m the biscuit fairy. I go around spreading the joy of fresh, warm biscuits.” She bumped me with her hip as my little brothers led her to the kitchen. She stopped and gave me a baleful look.
“This is sad, Parker, sad.” Sadie held up one of the biscuits.
“I don’t understand what happened. They’re flat and burnt,” I said irritably.
“Your butter wasn’t cold enough,” she said, breaking one apart. “And you overworked the dough.” She tossed the biscuits into the trash and washed her hands. “You just sit tight there, sugar,” she told me. “My biscuits are going to knock your socks off!”
26
Sadie
Iwas really struggling to maintain my composure and not completely freak out about Parker’s kitchen. It was huge and beautiful and white, and did I mention huge? Along with several refrigerators, it had a bank of ovens. It was, dare I say, nicer than Jasmine’s, and she had a nice kitchen.
“You all go make sure the dishes and utensils are out,” Parker told his brothers. “I’ll call you when it’s done.”
“Trying to get me alone?” I teased, tying an apron around my waist. “Or do you want my biscuits all to yourself?”
“Something like that,” he murmured and set a stand mixer on the counter.
“Oh no. I need a giant bowl over ice water. I’m old school. Watch and learn, Parker,” I said to his confused face. “Biscuits need a soft touch,” I explained as I measured out the flour. “We really need White Lily flour, but this will have to do. Unfortunately, they won’t be my best.”
“Don’t you need a recipe?” Parker asked as I started cutting up chunks of butter.
“I can make biscuits in my sleep,” I assured him. “Dump those bags of flour into the bowl.”
“Both bags?”
“You have a lot of brothers,” I said as I crumbled the cubed butter into the bowl then started cutting the butter into the flour.
“Do you need me to do it?” Parker asked, hovering over me.
“This is the most important part,” I warned. “Do not overwork it.” He stood right next to me, taking the party blender out of my hand. “Don’t mash it,” I warned, placing my hand over his and trying to ignore how close I was to him.
You already rebuffed him once. He’s not going to keep trying,I scolded myself.
“Cut, not mash,” I said. I watched to make sure he had the motion correct then turned to make the batter for the fried chicken. His sleeves were rolled up, and I drooled slightly as the muscle and tendons in his forearm rippled as he worked the dough.
“Thank you,” Parker said, deep voice breaking through the silence.
“For what?”
“Helping me—with this and the foundation. And for not pressing charges.”
“Charges against who?”
“My little brothers.”
I laughed. “I dumped food all overyou, remember?”
