Progress

Her fingers were sore from practicing so long, the strings cutting into the tender flesh of her fingertips, but that didn’t prevent Bree from making dinner. Most of the time since the fire, they ordered out, or Trent would make something when he got home, but since she’d done so well practicing earlier, her spirits had lifted. It wasn’t anything fancy, but her mother had taught her to make a mean eggplant parmesan. She’d just popped it in the oven to bake when she heard Trent’s keys in the lock.

Setting the timer, Bree went off to greet him, a smile on her face. “Hey, babe!” she called, anticipation of showing him later how well she&rsqu