When I open them again, Gwyneth is jumping to the music, screaming with the singer about silence. The same silence she’s massacring right now.She turns in my direction at that exact moment and freezes, her eyes going wide, with her spatula mic still at her mouth.“Nate.” My name comes out as a flustered sound in the middle of the loud music before she clears her throat and shouts, “Alexa, stop.”The music comes to a halt and she grimaces. “Was I too loud?”“You think?”“Sorry. I thought you had noise-canceling headphones or something since you’ve never complained about the music before.”That’s because I come out to watch. But I don’t say that, continuing to observe her instead. She has flour on her cheeks, which have turned red from all the singing and dancing. A cap covers her auburn strands, but a few stubborn ones are peeking through and she blows on them whenever they get into her eyes.“I’m baking,” she announces, motioning at the bowls, the flour, the butter, and the mess on t
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