And that was the real prize.
Kylie sliced into it. The steam rose in a fragrant cloud. She took a bite.
“Exactly,” Henley nodded. “Needs the sugar to make it kind.” kylie shay apple pie
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.
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. And that was the real prize
She brought the pie to the festival. Chad’s was a deconstructed, foam-infused monstrosity on a slate tile.
Kylie Shay knew two things for certain: her grandmother’s apple pie was the best in three counties, and she had absolutely no idea how to make it. She took a bite
The recipe, handwritten on a flour-dusted index card, sat propped against the salt shaker. It read like a secret code: “A handful of this, a whisper of that, and bake until the kitchen smells like home.” Not exactly the precise measurements Kylie’s culinary school instructor demanded.
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