Page 158 of A Taste of Vanilla

Halston looks at me for another second, fighting a smile.

This time, when I almost smile back, she beams.

thirteen

. . .

Pain, Gummy Worms, and the Hot Schedule Man

HALSTON

Pain arrives like an uninvited critic.

It’s polite at first, because apparently even my uterus has been reading Barrett Whitaker and decided subtle cruelty is the theme of the week.

A tightness low in my pelvis starts as I’m measuring flour, which only turns into a dull pull across my lower back when I bend for the sheet pans. A warning pulse under my ribs flares as I lift the butter block onto the prep table and attempt to pretend that my entire system is not attempting a hostile takeover.

I try to ignore it.

It feels like a skill. Some women learn piano. Some learn French. Some learn how to fold fitted sheets in a way that doesn’t look like they’ve given up on life.

I learn how to stand upright while my body quietly revolts.

“Absolutely not,” I whisper at my abdomen.

It doesn’t respect my wishes.

Outside of the prep room, Bitter Bloom is still dark except for the warm glow of the pastry case lights Dev forgot to turn offlast night. The front windows hold a pale gray version of morning. It’s far too early for customers. Most of the city isn’t awake.

And it’s definitely too early for my body to be on this bullshit.

I grip the edge of the worktable and breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. I’m annoyed immediately.

I’m fine. Fine enough.

I have croissant dough to turn, scone dough to cut, tart shells to blind bake, cookie dough to scoop, pastry cream to mix, and a fresh batch of the Legacy Latte syrup to make. There are about one thousand reasons not to sit down on the flour-dusted floor and bargain with God.

A cramp twists hard enough to make my vision blur, and the bench scraper slips out of my hand. It clatters loudly on the floor, and I freeze with one hand braced on the table and the other pressed against my lower stomach. “Nope,” I whisper.

The pain tightens. It’s sharp, low, deep, and familiar in the worst way, like a fist closing around organs that have never once paid rent.

I breathe through it. Count to five, and then ten. Then I lose count because counting becomes extremely difficult when you can’t think straight.

I pick up the bench scraper, rinse it, dry it, and set it back on the table like nothing happened.

Nothing happened. I am fine.

I hear the back door open and throw a curse at the ceiling.

Warren steps into the kitchen with a paper cup and a folded newspaper under his arm. He’s wearing the expression of a man who has never once been late to anything in his entire life.

My mind runs through a million names for him instead of focusing on the pain I’m in.

A very temporary problem, I remind myself. A master baker who is far too skilled for my little bakery. My best friend’s brother and former anonymous catastrophic decision. A production schedule terrorist.

He’s two steps inside the kitchen, and his eyes move over me once.

It’s all it takes.