Page 127 of A Taste of Vanilla

“You’re a liability,” I mumble.

I risk a look at him and watch as he slowly breathes through his nose.

“Halston.”

I love how much this bothers him.

“We’re using names now?”

His face immediately hardens.

I turn away. “Flour,” I say.

He moves to the bin before I can ask.

“How much?”

“Enough.”

“No.”

I grab my recipe binder and slap it on the table. “Here. Since you hate joy.”

He opens it, his jaw twitching.

The binder is absolutely not organized in a way that Warren would like. In fact, recipes are handwritten, crossed out, taped over, and updated with notes in the margins. There are arrows, coffee rings, tiny sketches, stickers, chocolate fingerprints, and at least one page that says, DO NOT TRUST APRIL HALSTON, SHE FORGOT SALT from back when we opened and I decided to hire an idiot.

He stares at the book and I wait for judgment.

“Your base ratios are good.”

“Excuse me?” I gasp.

“Your base ratios. They’re good.” He looks up.

“Oh.”

“And you adjust intuitively.”

“Is that a crime?”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s a skill.” The words are quiet.

I can handle criticism. Even the list. But praise from someonewho clearly does not hand it out for decoration makes me flounder.

I clear my throat. “Well, yes. Obviously.”

His mouth twitches. “Obviously.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.”

“You almost smiled.”

“I’m allowed to.”

“Marley said no.”