Page 143 of A Taste of Vanilla
The twenty-four-year-old one who opened Bitter Bloom with shaking hands, a terrifying loan, and a binder full of recipes that smelled like vanilla extract and fear.
The version of me who printed Barrett Whitaker’s first review and framed it.
A hidden gem with playful instincts and serious technical promise.
I hung that near the register like it was a blessing to this place. And for a time, it was. If Barrett Whitaker saw me, maybe everyone else would too.
I worked before Barrett praised me. I worked after.
I know that my bakery’s success isn’t a gift from some powerful man placed in my lap because I liked his son and he liked my lemon scones.
But knowing something and feeling it are two entirely different things.
Right now, I’m about four miles from the first one.
“Halston,” Marley says, her voice cutting through the buzzing in my ears.
I look up.
Everyone is watching me.
I take in Marley’s soft eyes, the controlled anger on Oliver’s face as he holds his own phone and reads everything I just read, the way Lisa has gone still in the doorway, and Dev holding a stack of boxes against his chest as concern creases between his brows.
Worst of all is Warren, who stands next to my oven with his sleeves pushed up his forearms and his dark hair tied back. His face is unreadable, and I wish, for once, that he would let me see him again.
My gaze holds his, and for just a second, I see it.
His restraint has teeth.
I hand Marley her phone back carefully. “Well,” I say brightly.
Oliver frowns. “No.”
I look at him. “No what?”
“No to whatever the fuck that voice is.”
“It’s my regular voice!”
He shakes his head. “That’s yourI’m about to have an epic mental breakdown so instead I’ll make a jokevoice.”
Marley nods, her eyes wide.
“No, it’s not.”
“Halston,” Oliver says sternly.
I turn away, if only because if he uses that tone one more time, I’ll start sobbing.
My dough deserves better.
“It’s fine,” I say instead.
“It’s not fine,” Marley insists.
“It’s a review.”
“It’s an attack.”
