m. I knew because I’d heard her alarm.
She’d baked, prepared ingredients, frosted, stirred, burned something and remade it, then steam-cleaned the floor because, as she put it, the kitchen was giving health inspector energy.
The table was ready for twenty-three.
Handwritten place cards, fresh flowers, printed menus. The house smelled of thyme, butter, and an unfamiliar sweetness.
It smelled like an expensive restaurant.
Ava had curled her hair and wore a spotless apron. She looked exhausted but radiant, fueled by adrenaline like a cooking-show finalist.
Then my phone vibrated.
