Page 121 of A Taste of Vanilla

Warren looks at her, annoyance clear in his blue eyes. “What?”

“No almost smiling at her.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I can’t control what my mouth does.”

Her eyes shut. “Dangerous sentence. I’m gonna ask you to step outside and have a little time out.”

I cover my face with my free hand. “Can everyone please stop making everything significantly worse?”

“No,” Oliver mutters.

I lower my hand and set the whisk down. It’s nine in the morning and we’ve been open for an hour.

The Legacy Latte is still selling. Apparently, my public response to Barrett Whitaker’s column has turned into a neighborhood event. Customers keep coming in with phones out, taking photos of the chalkboard and ordering brown sugar,cinnamon, and spite with their oat milk. Dev has declared them “legacy girlies,” which makes Oliver look like he wants to walk directly into traffic.

Lisa is managing the front while Dev mans the register.

Marley has been handling social media until Warren arrived and made her emotions too complicated to caption things.

And Oliver is supposed to be next door overseeing prep for his bar. Instead, he’s choosing to loiter.

“Don’t you have a business?” I ask him.

“Yeah.”

“Get busy.”

“It’s not open yet.”

“Then go emotionally prepare.”

He lifts his hand. “I’m watching this.”

“This”—I gesture around the kitchen—“is not entertainment.”

“It is for me.”

Marley nods. “Me too.”

“I slept with your brother,” I hiss.

“And now he’s trying to optimize your muffin schedule. Life is layered.”

Warren’s pen stops and he looks up, his shoulders drooping.

“My muffin schedule doesn’t need optimizing,” I scoff.

He looks at me.

My eyes narrow. “Do not.”

He says nothing.

I huff. “Okay the silence is worse.”

“It’s restraint.”