Page 186 of A Taste of Vanilla

Below it, in Dev’s handwriting:

COCONUT BLOOM LATTE

AS ENJOYED BY ANONYMOUS BLACK COFFEE LIARS

I’m going to erase that one before I leave.

Halston stands behind the counter, counting the till with herhair twisted into a messy knot, a pencil tucked behind one ear. Her sweater has slipped off of one shoulder, and there’s blue glaze on her wrist and a streak of flour across her cheek. She’s tired, but not in the way she’s been.

She’s satisfied. Worn out. Still standing after being given a few pieces of herself back.

The menu response has been amazing.

The Vanilla Proof sold out before two. The Coconut Bloom sold out twice because Halston underestimated demand and then pretended she had not. Three local food accounts posted photos of the specials, and two vendors called about bulk orders. Mrs. Alvarez told a woman in line that Barrett Whitaker would “not know joy unless it bit his tasteful ass,” which made Halston laugh so hard she had to lean on the counter for support.

Halston closes the register drawer and looks up. “You’re still here.” As if this isn’t more interesting than my extended-stay hotel room.

“Yeah.”

“Doing what?”

I hold up the clipboard, and she rolls her eyes.

“We need to make sure we have double the coconut syrup tomorrow.”

She leans her hip against the counter. “Because people loved it?”

“Yeah.”

“Because you loved it?”

I look at her.

Her eyes are tired and playful and far too aware.

“I said people.”

“You’re people.”

“Technically.” I pick up the empty bank bag from the counter and hand it to her. “You should take that upstairs.”

Her smile fades a little. “Are you leaving?”

“Yeah.”

She taps her fingers against the counter. “I’m not drunk,” she says suddenly.

Everything in me stops.

The bakery hums around us. The pipes, the refrigerators, Agatha’s faint metal sigh.

I look at her.

“I’m not spiraling because of Grant,” she says. “I’m not trying to prove something to Barrett. I’m not in the middle of a flare. I’m not confusing you being kind to me with something else.”

My hand tightens at my side.

“I know who you are.” Her eyes move over my face, down my shoulders, and then back up. “You know who I am. Marley knows just enough to know it’s highly unlikely we’re just friends who make suspicious eye contact.”