Page 149 of A Taste of Vanilla

The laugh that escapes me is shaky and stupid and so very close to another sob. “That may be the nicest thing anyone has said to me.”

“It’s also factual.”

We both rise, and I step past him.

The second we reach the bakery door, Marley appears with red eyes and a muffin in each hand. “I brought emotional support carbs,” she says.

My heart squeezes. “Thank you, Marley.”

Oliver stands behind her, his arms crossed. “I called Whitaker a fermented dickhead in my head eleven times.”

“Only in your head?” I ask.

“For now.”

Dev peeks around the door. “Legacy Lattes are still selling, bestie.”

Lisa turns from the prep table. “And I finished the cookie dough. It’s chilling until ready to bake.”

Warren stops beside me, and I take a look around.

At the kitchen. At the front of house.

There are empty tables. A few more than yesterday. The morning rush is smaller than it usually is, and two customers near the window are reading something on their phones and glancing at the chalkboard.

The second review has entered the room, and it’s sitting at my tables and whispering over my pastry case.

And it hurts. God, it hurts.

But this place isn’t empty.

Marley is here. Oliver is here. Dev and Lisa. Warren, too, temporary or not.

Bitter Bloom smells like it always has. Like butter, coffee, vanilla, and stubbornness.

I put the muffin down and walk to the chalkboard, gripping the chalk in one shaking hand.

For a second, I consider erasing everything. But that wouldn’t be me.

Instead, I erase just enough to make room for something new.

Marley looks at me with wide eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Working.”

Oliver makes a sound. “That answer has never once led to anything peaceful.”

But I’m not interested in peaceful. If Barrett wants discipline, fine. I’ll give him a drink with structure.

I write:

THE DISCIPLINE ISSUE

DARK CHOCOLATE-CHERRY ESPRESSO WITH BROWN SUGAR, CINNAMON, AND SALTED CREAM

STRUCTURED ENOUGH FOR HIM, SWEET ENOUGH FOR US.

I step back.