I found Libby in the kitchen, surrounded by cupcakes. Literally hundreds of them. If she’d been an apology baker back home, the addition of an industrial-grade kitchen with triple ovens had basically taken her nuclear. “Libby?” I approached her cautiously. “Do you think I should go for red velvet or salted caramel next?” Libby was holding an icing bag with both hands. Blue hair had escaped her ponytail and was matted to her face. She wouldn’t meet my eyes. “She’s been at it for hours,” Nash told me. He stood leaning back against a stainless-steel refrigerator, his thumbs hooked through the
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