When the timer beeped, the pie was golden and blistered in the most beautiful way. A single bubble of syrupy juice leaked through a vent, glistening like amber.
The kitchen filled with the scent of cinnamon, butter, and something deeper—brown sugar caramelizing, apples softening into jam. It smelled like Sunday afternoons. Like forgiveness. Like home.
Her first attempt was a disaster.
“Exactly,” Henley nodded. “Needs the sugar to make it kind.”
Kylie slumped onto a stool, defeated. “I’m a fraud,” she muttered into her hands. kylie shay apple pie
For the crust, he guided her hands. “Cold butter, Kylie. Treat it like a bad date—keep your distance, don’t get attached. Just quick, sharp cuts.”
She had promised to bring the pie to the Harvest Festival bake-off. It wasn’t about winning the blue ribbon—though that would silence her rival, Chad from the gastropub. It was about legacy. Grandma Jo had passed last spring, and the town expected Kylie to carry the torch. When the timer beeped, the pie was golden
And that was the real prize.