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the oak of the desk, "That’s what I want to preserve. My parents loved this place, I want everyone else to love it as well."
    Walking past him, I turned to the counter, kneeling down to dig through the cabinet below the cash register. There, stuffed in the back, were my mother's recipes.
    I pulled them out, flicking through the pages, "What should we make first?" I asked, turning to Lewis.
    There seemed like no better place to start than practicing a recipe or two.
    The handsome blond stopped mid sip of his coffee, green eyes staring at me blankly. After a long moment's hesitation he lifted his mouth from the mug, "Uh, what do you mean?" He asked, frowning.
    "What should we make first?" I repeated, slowly this time. Was Lewis feeling okay?
    "I can't...make anything." He mumbled, embarrassment beginning to turn his neck red, "I just tell people what to do."
    "You can't cook?" I asked, groaning as I rubbed my fingers against my forehead, "We're screwed, then."
    "You don't know anyone who can work a kitchen?" He asked, moving closer to take a peek at the recipe book.
    "Not anyone looking for a job." I sighed, "I guess we're just going to have to figure this out ourselves. Keep that front door locked, we're closed today." Maybe for much longer than a day, honestly.
    "Aye, aye, captain." Lewis sighed begrudgingly, placing his coffee down as he clapped his hands together, rubbing his palms as he attempted not to look completely miserable, "Where do we start?"
    "Muffins." I said firmly, "That should be easy enough, right?"
    Harry made it look easy, anyway. The thought of his blueberry buttermilk muffins practically made my mouth water.
    That man was definitely a magician in the kitchen.
    "Sure." Lewis shrugged, eyes completely uncertain.
    We stood, shoulder to shoulder, staring intently down at my mother's recipe, trying to make sense of the words and directions.
    Neither of us knew how to decode what felt like an ancient language full of ‘cups’ and ‘sifting’ and ‘jelly roll pans.’
    "Why do they mix the wet and the dry ingredients separately first?" Lewis asked, leaning over to whisper in my ear as though he were worried the ghostly spirits of my parents would leap out and strike him down for questioning them.
    "I have no idea." I responded, grabbing two bowls and placing them in front of us, "But I’m sure that’s not important."
    Lewis frowned at me, shaking his head as I handed him a large sack of flour.
    "It won't be too bad." I said again, "Everything will be fine."

Chapter Seven
     
     
     
    Everything was most certainly not fine in the bakery that afternoon.
    By the time Lewis and I were finished burning dozens of brick like muffins, the kitchen counters were heavily coated in flour, batter was stuck to the roof, and we were exhausted.
    We sat there, in the middle of the kitchen, leaning dejectedly against the back of the counters with a plate of rock-hard defeat between us.
    "This has been a disaster." I moaned, turning to face him, "Why did I think I could really do this?"
    I'd driven the bakery into the ground for the entirety of last year, how had I thought it would turn out any differently now?
    I was a stupid, silly little girl.
    "That’s not true." Lewis responded sternly, pointing a finger at me, "We discovered something today."
    "What?" I asked, pushing away the plate of overly crispy muffins. I didn’t want to look at them anymore
    "We discovered that neither of us is ever going to be a baker." He chuckled, wincing as I slapped playfully at his shoulder.
    "This isn't the time for making jokes!" I exclaimed, laughing through a pout, "We're going to kill this bakery...again!"
    He laughed, a deep belly laugh that rocked all the way through him. It was infectious, causing me to spiral into mirth as well. Sometimes ,when things look their worse, you need laughter more than anything.
    When we finally stopped, he leaned closer, wiping a tear from his eye.
    "We should clean up." He said quietly, "If Alissa