The other bags all read gluten free. I picked up a stack of flour-crusted printouts. Each one was a recipe for gluten-free pizza dough. His messy handwriting was on each page. There were notes, highlights, and alternative measurements. Was he running some kind of test kitchen in here? As I sealed each bag and wiped down the counters, my mind wandered. Was he doing this for me? He’d baked scones before. And those incredible blueberry muffins after he got one at the Caffeinated Moose and I said I was jealous. Was he really trying to crack the pizza code? For me? My heart clenched. Some girls
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