Page 107 of A Taste of Vanilla

Marley takes a bite of her scone, and Oliver goes back to his phone.

The bakery has been open for twenty minutes, and somehow, the world has not ended yet. Mrs. Alvarez came in, ordered a Men Are Decorative at Best Latte, and told me my hair looked like it held secrets. Dev arrived ten minutes later wearing black jeans, a black t-shirt, and a black beanie even though it’s already eighty-five degrees outside. When I asked why, he said, “We’re still mourning and planning revenge.”

Lisa comes through the back entrance and pauses at the kitchen door. Her gaze moves from Marley’s tense shoulders to Oliver’s grim face, then to my overly bright smile and the cooling racks full of muffins.

“Nope,” she says simply before putting on an apron and labeling cookie bags.

Lisa is wise.

For the first hour, my hands stay busy. Pull shots, steam milk, box scones, refill napkins, smile at customers, and pretend that I’m not aware of the exact spot in my bakery where Warren had stood and looked at me after learning my name.

I push the image out of my head and scrub the counter. Again. Because it’s already clean.

I wipe harder.

Dev leans around the espresso machine. “Bestie, if you scrub that anymore, it’s going to ask to talk to the manager.”

“I’m cleaning.”

“You’re basically attacking.”

Dev smiles sweetly and hands a customer her latte. “Have a beautiful day. Men are decorative at best!”

The woman lifts her drink in agreement and leaves.

Marley watches from the table. “That drink is going to become a problem.”

I shrug. “It’s a bestseller.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“I’ve been saying that about her drinks for years.”

“They’re whimsical.”

“They’re public diary entries with foam.”

I pout. “People like vulnerability.”

“People like sugar.”

“Both can be true.”

Marley’s phone buzzes on the table. She looks down, and her lips flatten.

I freeze. “Is it him?” I ask.

She glances up. “Which him?”

There are far too many problematic men in the broad narrative of my life.

“Grant.”

“No.” She winces. “It’s Warren.”

My stomach flips as I try very hard not to look interested.

Marley reads the text aloud in a flat voice. “I’m coming back with tools.”