“You’re Just a Baker,” My Sister Screamed—The Next Time They Heard My Name, It Was on a Tokyo Flagship

steel.

“Abigail, thank God,” my mother gasped, already theatrical.

No hello. No apology. Just crisis.

Marcus stuck his head out from the kitchen, eyebrows lifting at the invasion. “Everything okay, Chef?”

I wiped my hands on my apron, flour and butter grinding into the stained fabric. “What’s going on?”

“The caterer canceled,” Haley announced, examining continue reading …