I move toward the standing mixer, throwing ingredients in, taking care to

measure with conviction. Cooking is one thing, but making is another; there is

no room for measuring mistakes. An extra tablespoon of sugar could ruin the

whole dish.

Karl grins, his voice cutting through the tension. “Don’t forget to breathe, Abby,”

he reminds me, shooting me a wink from across the table.

I let out a breath. “I’m breathing.”

“Yeah, sure,” he says, sliding the bowl of lemon zest toward me. “Everyone

knows that breathing involves keeping your chest perfectly still, your shoulders

stiff, your face red.”

Enter title…

but chuckle.

while longer,

than I

nutmeg—only to pop open the lid

of

looks up, eyes narrowing. “That’s not

it’s not.” I frantically search for the correct spice,

the labels got messed up.” I pick up another jar, pop

inhale. But the jar,

I mutter, my panic rising. “Paprika in the cinnamon jar? What’s going

here?”

reaching into our

labeled ‘nutmeg’ and hands

one is bound to be the right one. The other

glance at the clock makes my heart

more time hunting for spices than I would

struggle. Stifling a curse,

the mixture and

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