Abby wiped her hands on her apron—a ridiculous thing printed with cartoon avocados—and walked to the kitchen doorway. There stood a woman in a navy peacoat, snow melting in her dark curls, holding a foil-covered pie dish like a shield.
“Sorry,” the woman said. “I’m Clara. From 3B? The building next door? My oven died in the middle of baking this, and your light was on, and I thought—well, I thought maybe you’d let me finish it here. I’ve knocked on three other doors. You’re my last hope before I eat raw pie dough in the stairwell.” abby winters kitchen
“This island is beautiful,” Clara said, running her fingers along the grain. “Did you build it?” Abby wiped her hands on her apron—a ridiculous
Abby Winters’ kitchen smelled of rosemary and regret. “I’m Clara
“Come in,” Abby said, stepping aside. “My kitchen’s a mess, but the oven works.”
“Hello?” A voice, unfamiliar. Female. A little breathless from the cold.
Abby wiped her hands on her apron—a ridiculous thing printed with cartoon avocados—and walked to the kitchen doorway. There stood a woman in a navy peacoat, snow melting in her dark curls, holding a foil-covered pie dish like a shield.
“Sorry,” the woman said. “I’m Clara. From 3B? The building next door? My oven died in the middle of baking this, and your light was on, and I thought—well, I thought maybe you’d let me finish it here. I’ve knocked on three other doors. You’re my last hope before I eat raw pie dough in the stairwell.”
“This island is beautiful,” Clara said, running her fingers along the grain. “Did you build it?”
Abby Winters’ kitchen smelled of rosemary and regret.
“Come in,” Abby said, stepping aside. “My kitchen’s a mess, but the oven works.”
“Hello?” A voice, unfamiliar. Female. A little breathless from the cold.
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