Page 15 of A Taste of Vanilla

His eyes light with recognition. “The place with the blue cream puffs?”

“Cloud puffs,” I say with a smile. “They’re seasonal.” For spring.

He smiles. “My wife loved those.”

“Your wife has excellent taste,” I say, pride blooming within my chest.

He smiles. “Are you catering something here?”

I shake my head. “Nope, just feeding my fiancé.”

“Lucky man.”

I smile in that way you do when someone calls your life lucky. Like if you let it sit there long enough, it’ll fit.

The elevator climbs, and I watch the numbers blink and adjust the pastry box against my hip. My engagement ring catches in the light, the diamond flashing bright enough to catch my gaze.

It really is a beautiful ring—oval cut. Gold band. Elegant and tasteful. Grant had picked it himself, which everyone said was romantic.

I had wanted a vintage ring. Something with strange details and a history. Maybe a little imperfect. Maybe just a little too much. But Grant had slid this one onto my finger at a rooftop restaurant while a violinist played nearby. Both of our families watched from tables arranged in a semicircle like an audience. My mother had cried over FaceTime from New York while his mother had clapped with both hands pressed beneath her chin. His father, Barrett Whitaker, had raised a glass of champagne and made a toast about tradition, legacy, and excellent taste. My father had given me a forced smile.

Oliver and Marley had not known about it and were not invited. Family only, Grant had said.

His best friend, Tony Cross, had been there.

When I met them at Saints & Sinners that night, neither of them could hide their disappointment, even though Marley triedher best to pretend she was excited. Oliver left the building for a good twenty minutes.

But everyone at the engagement had looked so pleased. I thought I was too.

The elevator dings before I can think about it any longer.

Whitaker Development takes up the entire twenty-second floor. Grant’s family didn’t do partial. They did whole floors, large corner offices, private clubs, wine cellars, donor walls, and vacations they described as “the coast” because apparently rich people lost the need for specifics after they passed a certain tax bracket.

I step out into the reception area, and the first thing I notice is how quiet it is.

Usually, there’s someone sitting behind the desk. There’s phones ringing, heels clicking, and men with cufflinks moving between glass-walled conference rooms looking urgent and grossly self-important.

Today, the front desk is empty.

I walk toward Grant’s office. “Elise?” I call. There’s no answer.

Elise Harding is Grant’s secretary. Executive assistant, technically, but Grant always calls her his secretary because Grant’s vocabulary sometimes gets stuck in 1985 when women were either wives, secretaries, or too complicated to care about at all.

Elise is twenty-five… or maybe twenty-six. Glossy brown hair, careful makeup, and wore tiny gold necklaces layered in that effortless way that I’ve tried to pull off and always got them tangled. She’s pretty, efficient, and always looks at me like she’s still deciding whether I’m impressive enough to be in Grant’s life.

I didn’t dislike her. Not really. I didn’t like the way I felt around her. Like I needed to stand taller. Or like my bakery shoes or the flour smudged on my shirt are evidence that I’m somehow lacking instead of proof that I make things with my hands.

I shift the coffees and continue my walk to his office, only to find his door closed.

Grant usually has his door shut. It’s normal. But what’s not is the sounds coming from behind it.

At first, I thought it was a laugh. A short breath, soft and strange. Then a low murmur. Then Elise’s voice. It wasn’t crisp, nor professional.

“Grant.”

My breathing stops, and I’m shocked at how fast my body responds to something my mind is refusing to name. Every part of me is still. The pastry box is pressed hard into my ribs, the cold coffee sliding down the side of one cup and dripping onto my fingers.

Behind the door, something thumps. A desk drawer? A chair?