Page 42 of Vallaverse: Twist
Mrs. Richards doesn't make a mess in the kitchen when she's baking. Everything stays tidy and organized and efficient when she bakes. But Laz is helping her today, so the kitchen is in a state of chaos when I freeze in the doorway. “This is an unfair turn of events.”
She winks at me. “This is nothing compared to the mess you'd make. He's learning how to use the mixer.”
I lean against the frame and cross my arms to fully take in the scene. Flour everywhere. Eggshells everywhere. Ingredients and small bowls everywhere. With Laz in the center of all of it, scowling at the mixer. He was never what anyone would call domestic, and I suppose that hasn't changed over the years.
“What are we making today?” I ask.
“A mess,” Laz answers.
I laugh, and Mrs. Richards raises her motherly brow to shut me up.
“You're learning,” she says gently. “It won't be like this next time.”
“Next time?” he scoffs. “This is a one-time deal. The kitchen can't handle a next time.”
“Nonsense,” she tuts. “All cooks and bakers make messes. It's part of the gig. You get better at it over time, but there willalways be messes and mistakes. You will always be learning and improving.”
“That's not what you said to me,” I say, smirking. I know what she's doing, and I love her for it.
Las looks away from the traitorous mixer with raised brows. “What did she say to you?”
“She told me to stay the hell out of her kitchen.”
Laz laughs. His real laugh, not the buttoned-up version that kept him safe from himself and whatever else. The good one.
“I suppose you've come to ask about your schedule?” Mrs. Richards asks, wiping her hands on her apron.
I nod.
“It's better to ask for forgiveness than permission sometimes,” she says, crossing her arms. “I took a liberty or two.”
“How many liberties?”
“Four,” she answers. “You need a break. Appointments every single day for almost a month. You need a day to relax. I didn't rearrange anything important.”
“That appointment this afternoon could have been important,” I counter.
“Brooks Lockwood,” she says, moving a hand to her hip. “You don't even know what it was or who it was with.”
“Ohhh, you're in trouble,” Laz jokingly sings.
This is what normal is supposed to feel like. This is what family is supposed to feel like. A destroyed kitchen, a housekeeper who takes liberties and scolds you, and a flour-covered Omega. This is good.
“Well,” I sigh, taking a step into the kitchen and unbuttoning the cuffs of my sleeves to roll them up. “If I have nothing to do today and the kitchen is already in disarray, I might as well learn how to use the mixer, too.”
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Richards says. “You'll just be tempted to try when I'm not here to supervise. You can sit at the table and watch and help with the icing when it's time.”
That does sound like the safest plan.
The morning is spent watching Laz learn how to use various kitchen appliances and poorly spreading purple icing on cookies that are somehow both burnt and undercooked. I've smiled so much that my cheeks have started to ache. It's astounding, really. Just a few weeks ago I was wallowing in worry and dark thoughts, and now I'm sitting in a bright kitchen that smells like sugar.
“Okay, well, you boys have made a big enough mess in here. Why don't you go find something else to do while I clean up?”
Laz shakes his head, still smiling. “No, that's not fair to you. I'm cleaning up. You go find something else to do.”
That's actually an excellent plan. “Yes, we'll clean up. Hey, I know. I have a standing reservation at Lenore's. Go round up your cantankerous husband and make an afternoon of it.”
Mrs. Richards looks out the window as if she can see whatever her husband is puttering around with on the grounds. “He hates going to town.”
