Page 119 of A Taste of Vanilla

Marley wipes under her eye and immediately scowls like the tear committed a crime. “Fine. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.” She lifts her phone. “Picture.”

Oliver groans. “No.”

“Yes. We post it before the Whitaker worshippers show up and sniff for blood.”

“I hate social media,” Oliver moans.

“Social media hates you too, but it’s still useful.”

Dev appears around the door. “Did someone say content?”

Marley points at him. “You. Make the latte look slutty.”

Dev nods solemnly. “I was born for this.”

Lisa comes in, reads the chalkboard, and smiles slowly. “There she is,” she says.

I look at her. And Marley. And Oliver. And Warren.

My imperfect bakery with one wounded oven, a spite latte, an article trying to make me feel smaller, and one large complication standing too quietly in my kitchen.

I clap. “Okay. Let’s sell some gimmicks.”

Marley lifts her phone, and Oliver mutters something about needing a liquor license for the bakery.

Warren looks at me like he’s seeing me. The full me.

For a moment, I let him.

nine

. . .

Mood is Not a Measurement

HALSTON

Warren has beenin Maryland for less than forty-eight hours and he’s already caused more damage to my life than Agatha.

While Agatha has a temperamental left side and the audacity to betray me during a rush, Warren has broad shoulders and the audacity to be Marley’s brother after putting his mouth on several parts of me that friendship law has not yet recovered from.

They’re both problems, and yet, only one of them is currently standing in the middle of my kitchen with a notebook and a severe grimace.

A notebook. In my bakery. My sacred, flour-dusted, butter-scented kingdom of chaos and caffeine. I’ve hadtwo notebooksin here within two days, and somehow they were both brought in by the King siblings. Ugh.

I stare at it like it may open its little paper mouth and tell me to go fuck myself.

“No.” I don’t mean to say it out loud, and my hand immediately smacks over my mouth.

Warren rolls his eyes. “You don’t even know what I’m writing.”

“I know exactly what you’re writing.”

“You do not.”

I lean against the wall. “You’re making a list.”

“Yeah.”