Page 115 of A Taste of Vanilla

For the next hour, we run Bitter Bloom on one smaller oven, caffeine, and communal denial.

Lisa adjusts the bake schedule with the calm brutality of a woman who has raised three children and therefore fears nothing. Dev works the front and tells customers Agatha is “taking a personal day.” Oliver moves between the bar and bakery, pretending not to help while very clearly helping. Marley handles social media, posting a picture of the Men Are Decorative at Best Latte with the caption:

LIMITED RUN. NO CONTEXT. FULL SPITE.

We get a rush, and the latte sells out within forty-eight minutes.

Warren works in the kitchen without taking over. That, I fear, is the worst part.

He inspects the oven, tests temperature zones, checks the seal, pulls the lower panel, and asks before moving anything. Every time. Even when it is obvious. Even when asking is inefficient.

“Can I shift the prep table?”

I stare at him. He stares back.

“Fine,” I say finally. “But if you judge what’s under it, I’m denying everything.”

“It’s probably just flour.”

“There may be a gummy worm.”

His brows furrow. “Why?”

“Emotional support snack.”

He says nothing.

He moves the prep table. There are three stray sprinkles, one pen, a dusting of flour, and yes, a half-eaten gummy worm. Red and green.

Warren looks at it.

I cross my arms. “It was a hard week.”

He sweeps it into the dustpan and throws it away without comment.

By noon, the rush slows.

Agatha remains off, cooling like a disgraced duchess. Warren stands beside her with a notepad he found somewhere.

I lean against the table. “Please tell me you’re not writing a eulogy.”

“She needs a new heating element and probably a thermostat.”

“How bad is probably?”

“Moderate.”

“Moderate as in normal or Warren moderate?”

His gaze lifts. “What’s Warren moderate?”

“Something everyone else would call catastrophic but you refuse to because feelings are inefficient.”

He ignores me. “It’s fixable.”

The relief is immediate.

“Really?”