Page 161 of A Taste of Vanilla

“I have to finish prep,” I say.

“Okay.”

“And before you say I don’t?—”

“You do.”

I pause.

He looks at the production sheet taped to the shelf. I’m behind from yesterday, but he doesn’t look fazed.

“You have a wholesale pickup at eight,” he says. “The front case needs minimum stock by seven-thirty. Legacy syrup is low, tart shells don’t need to be done today, and scones can bereduced by half. Croissants are already in progress, so we’ll prioritize them.”

I stare at him.

He picks up his notebook and looks through it. “I swear to God, Warren, if you start making a list of my organs, I’m calling Marley.”

“I’m making a revised production schedule.”

“No.”

He pauses. “May I make one?”

I open my mouth, then close it. He waits.

“I don’t need you to take over,” I say.

“I know.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“You’re here temporarily.”

I say it because I need the reminder, but it looks like it hits him in the chest.

Temporary help. Temporary brother-in-town. Temporary man in my kitchen with large hands and too many manners.

“Yes,” he says after a second. “I am.”

He’s calm, and it makes my heart squeeze.

I wrap both arms around my middle. “Fine. You may make a suggested revised production schedule.”

“Suggested,” he repeats.

“Yes. Underline it.”

He writes something down.

My eyes narrow. “Did you actually underline it?”

He shows it to me for proof.

I lean against the table, bent forward over my knees, while he works. He doesn’t rush, and he breaks my morning into pieces and makes notes.

He doesn’t remove me.