“Okay…” Randy stared at the ingredients lined up on the counter, his tone daring them to defy what he was about to say. “Christmas cookies.”
He eyed the flour and the eggs, and then gave the sugar and the butter a hard stare. “This is not a suggestion. This is not a recommendation. We will do this.”
When he caught himself waiting for their reply, he chuckled and rubbed the skin of his forehead with one dry palm until it burned from friction. “Too quiet,” Randy mumbled. He dropped his palm to the counter and shook his head at the sink. “Way, way too f*****g quiet.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d found himself talking to things—the mirror, more often than not, the fridge when it didn’t miraculously refill itself, and his woodstove the night prior. The woodstove conversation had gone farthe
