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“Yeah, and those were my jeans you—Oh my god.” Slowly, my head swivels to where Fallon hangs back against the counter, arms crossed, face flaming. “My cinnamon rolls.”
I lift the tray and wipe off the lid. I can see swirls of huckleberry and lemon in the frosting. It’s my recipe.
Tears spring to my eyes. They’re just cinnamon rolls and yet…
They’re everything.
Fallon hates baking. My sister would rather chew a bowl of cardboard and milk than attempt domesticity.
“Damn it, Dakota. Don’t cry,” she orders, eyes darting to my belly.
“You made them,” I choke out.
Fallon looks like she wants to light me on fire. “Yeah, well,” she says with a hitch of her shoulders. “We needed a recipe for breakfast, so I used yours. Sue me.”
“But I never gave you that.”
“I found it in the fall issue ofFood & Wine,” she grudgingly admits.
I remember that interview. It was a year before I met Aiden. I was in Paris at a minimalist patisserie that served molten hot chocolate with decadently fluffy whipped cream. I had talked about my new bakery, why croissants are overrated, and the sweet simplicity of the honeybun. But what I left out of that interview was Resurrection.
Thinking back, I credited my culinary school mentor for my success. But not my little sister for always taste testing all my creations—good or bad. Or my father for giving me the kitchen every Sunday and letting me thrash it with flour and frosting.
Maybe all along I’ve been wrong. Leaving my past behind, when it was my past that made me.
“I want to try one,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes. “Dakota.”
“C’mon.” I move over and preheat the oven. “We’ll let the dough defrost while we clean up.”
And that’s what we do while we wait for them to bake. We scrape dirty dishes into sudsy hot water, load silverware and coffee mugs into the dishwasher, and wipe down the counters. I relabel the clear storage containers with neat handwriting,then watch as Fallon, grumbling, pulls the tray of freshly baked cinnamon rolls from the oven.
I sit on a stool while Fallon slathers on the huckleberry frosting like she’s carving up a dead body.
She all but throws the plate at me. “Here. Enjoy,” she says, her upper lip curling in displeasure. “Orbon appétit.”
Eyes locked on her face, I break off a piece of cinnamon roll and pop it in my mouth. Slowly, I chew, savoring the doughy texture, the sweet frosting.
I swallow and say, “It’s good.”
Fallon snorts. “Yeah, right. Critique me. No bullshit. I know you want to do it, and I can take it.”
She can. My tough little sister, who gets knocked around by nags and bucked off by broncs, can handle anything.
“The frosting is grainy. And the dough is gummy. You didn’t let it rise long enough.” I hold up a hand when she snaps open her mouth. “But you did well. For a first timer, I’m seriously impressed.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
“No way,” I say when she goes to clear my plate. “I’m finishing this. Eating for two, remember?”
“Please don’t poison your child on my account.”
I smile. “Squish.”
She wrinkles her nose, and after a second of hesitation, she sits on a stool across from me, elbow on the counter and chin in her palm.
I finish the entire cinnamon roll. It’s gloopy and overladen with sugar, but I’ve tasted nothing more delicious. My sister tried. She tried for me. For our store. That alone is enough to bring tears to my eyes.
