Bluegrass Blessings
"You can't do this." Dinah Hopkins glared mercilessly at the oven knobs. "I own you. You work for me and insubordination of any kind will not be permitted. Capiche?"
Her New York mobster impersonation failed to impress, for the pilot light still stared at her with one blue, unblinking eye. For lack of a better solution, she whacked the side of the cold oven with her rolling pin. Whacked. That was a gangster term, right?
"Whacked, as in end of life. As in light this minute or it's the end of my life, buster." Dinah fiddled with another knob or two, which had worked last week to get the fickle thing started, and checked the gas connection. "All's well, you iron beast, you've got gas and flame but what I need is heat. So heat. I can't exactly run a bakery with a microwave. Bakeries have ovens. Nice, obedient, toasty ovens."
The blue unblinking eye mocked her. Okay, let's try a little tenderness. "C'mon, baby, you know you want to. It's a brand new year. You see that dough over there just begging to be sticky buns? You can do that. You're the one who makes it happen. Let's get cooking." Dinah stroked the side of one burner as if she really cou ... read full excerpt from: Bluegrass Blessings ebook
