Page 163 of A Taste of Vanilla

I sit in silence and try not to cry.

I fail.

Not horribly. But one tear slips out and lands on the paper in my lap.

By the time Warren returns, I’ve moved the croissant dough into the center of the prep table and convinced myself to do the next turn. He stops in the doorway, the heating pad in hand, an ibuprofen bottle, and a small packet of gummy worms.

I stare. “What is that?”

“Second bin.”

“No. The gummy worms.”

“They were on top.”

“Those are emergency gummy worms.”

“I assumed.”

“You assumed what?”

“That this is an emergency.”

For a second, I laugh. It hurts, and yet I do it anyway.

He gives me a look before setting the heating pad on the table where I was sitting. “Can I plug it in?”

I blink at him. “What?”

“The heating pad.”

“Yes, Warren. You can plug in the heating pad.”

He plugs it into the outlet near the shelf, and then glances around the kitchen. His gaze briefly sweeps over the front of the bakery, the case lights, and everything else.

“You need somewhere you can spread out.”

“I need to work.”

“You can do both.”

He walks over to the door and throws it open. “Oliver!” he calls.

Oliver yells, “No!” from the bar, but he appears anyway.

“You don’t know the question,” Warren says.

“I know the person asking.”

“Is your office open?”

He pauses and looks around the doorframe at me, suspicion on his face. “Why?”

“I want Halston to go somewhere to spread out for a bit.”

Oliver’s expression changes immediately. “How bad?”

“I’m standing right here,” I mutter.