Page 180 of A Taste of Vanilla

His lips thin. “Hal.”

We test the ratios three more times. By the fourth, Warren’s black coffee is still untouched, and his mouth has found three other ways not to say he likes coconut.

I name it The Runaway Coconut Latte.

He rejects it.

“Why?”

“It sounds like the coconut escaped the drink.”

“It did escape. From the tyranny of black coffee.”

“Halston.”

“Coconut with Commitment.”

“No.”

“Tall, Dark, and Coconut.”

He sighs and considers this one before rejecting it.

I cross my arms. “Then what do you suggest?”

He looks at the drink.

It’s beautiful. Soft white foam and toasted coconut are sexy.

“Coconut Bloom,” he says after a moment.

I pause.

“Damn it,” I whisper. “That one's really good.”

“I know.”

The drink sells out in two hours. The pastry sells out in one.

By lunch, the photo Marley took when she arrived has been shared by three different local food accounts, two regulars, and one Vipers player who captions his picture, “Barrett who?”

Oliver cautiously calls it inflammatory, while Marley insists that it’s organic reach.

For the first time since the review, the bakery feels awake. It’s not frantic, like it’s been in the past. But alive. People are smiling and asking for the specials by name. They order the latte and take photos with it. Mrs. Alvarez tells me that sweetness is a weapon if used correctly, which feels like something she would put on a pillow.

But the prep is easy. The day flies by, and at the end of it all, Warren is right. Which annoys me.

By three, the rush has softened into a gentle afternoon lull. Lisa is wrapping extra cookie dough, Dev is wiping down tables while humming a song that may or may not be from the musical he’s supposed to go see this weekend, and Marley is in the corner answering comments.

Warren is gone.

He left fifteen minutes ago to check on something next door, which I assume means he’s standing next to Oliver in silence until Oliver gets annoyed enough to talk to him.

I carry a tray of clean cups toward the back and stop.

Because there, half-hidden in the narrow alley between Bitter Bloom and Saints & Sinners, stands Warren King.

Alone.