Later that day, I come downstairs at home to find Mandi baking in the kitchen while Nikki’s radio show is on.
“Can you please turn it off?” I say, grabbing an orange juice and sitting on the other side of the breakfast bar.
Mandi doesn’t answer, just gives me a look.
“Why are you baking?” I ask.
She blows one of her red strands out of her eyes. “Francois said he could bake better than me, so I’m challenging him.”
“Can we please just call him Frank?” I grumble.
Mandi’s chef at the inn is so arrogant, he insists everyone call him Francois. But really his name is Frank, and he’s from Alaska. He’s just a brilliant chef who never trained professionally.
“Shh… his radar will go off knowing there’s a disturbance in the force and I’ll have to listen to him complain about it for a solid week
