Page 137 of A Taste of Vanilla

“Stupid is not feedback,” Halston says stiffly.

“Crunchy outside with a soft inside? Spicy but not, like, knocking me on my ass hot.”

She nods. “Good.”

Another player dips his pastry into the sauce and points at it. “This needs to come in bottles.”

Halston gasps, her hands gripping the side of the table. “Yes!”

Oliver points to the player from across the room. “Can you guys stop giving her ideas?” Under his breath, he says, “For fucks sake.”

Marley smirks. “I think sauce bottles would be cute. Maybe make them tiny. One for each pastry.”

Oliver’s fist hits the bar. “You’re banned from strategy sessions.”

Grabbing a cocktail napkin, Halston writes something down with a glittery pink pen. Before I can stop myself, I step closer. “What are you writing?”

“Sinners Sauce,” she replies.

I wince, scratching the back of my head. “I’m not sure I like that name.”

Her beautiful eyes meet mine in a questioning glance. “What do you mean? Can you come up with something better?”

I think about it for a moment, biting my cheek.

“What about Sweet Heat?” a Viper asks.

Halston turns toward him, and it almost feels like the room goes quiet.

She points. “That.”

Oliver groans.

The name isn’t terrible. It’s clear, short, and slightly memorable, and it’s better than something directly related to Oliver’s bar that would be harder to sell elsewhere.

She looks to me.

“It works,” I tell her with a nod.

She smiles. One of those huge ones that lights up the entire room. “Really?”

I nod once.

“Thank you.”

I look away before I do something I’ll regret.

For the next hour, the bar becomes Halston’s experiment. She’s turned Oliver’s bar into an extension of Bitter Bloom through force and personality alone. And maybe a little pastry. She pairs Victory Twists with Oliver’s dry cider even though he claims pairing is “wine behavior.” She renames his basic whiskey sour The Ninth-Inning Sour until he threatens to remove citrus from the building, and she convinces two Vipers to taste-test three versions of a late-night cookie skillet and asks them to rate it by “would you eat this after a devastating loss,” “would you eat this after a normal loss,” and “would you eat shirtless in celebration.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her that they’re all good. I don’t think she cares.

She finally stops near the end of the night when Oliver threatens to sue her. Meanwhile, Marley excitedly shows Halston how much engagement the bar’s social media is getting.

I stand at the end of the bar and watch it all unfold silently, almost wishing I could get in on the action myself.

There’s value in observation. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

Halston is testing product-market fit in real time. Sure, it’s informal. It’s also a bit louder than I’m used to. There are so many names being flung about and absolutely zero cost analysis. But she’s reading customers faster than anyone I’ve ever met. She studies their faces and mannerisms as they take a bite.