Page 50 of A Taste of Vanilla

“I have orders.”

“Refund them.”

I set down my fork. “I’m not closing.”

Marley and Oliver exchange a look, and I point to them. “No face conversations.”

Marley lifts both of her hands. “Okay.”

“Bitter Bloom is mine,” I say, and my voice comes out sharper than I mean it to be. “It was mine before Grant, and it’s mine today. I’m not letting him take the one thing I actually built. I’m not letting him take my joy.”

The bakery is quiet.

Oliver lowers his mug, and Marley looks at me for a second before her face twists into something awful. Pride, worry, love… all of it. All of the things.

“Okay,” she says simply.

“Okay?”

“If you want to open, we’re going to help you open.”

Oliver frowns. “Marley.”

“She gets to choose,” she insists.

His mouth shuts, and I look at him. He looks frustrated and reluctant, like he’s resisting the urge to wrap me in bubble wrap and put me somewhere Grant Whitaker can’t find me.

He nods once. “Fine. But with modified hours.”

“You can’t negotiate my bakery hours.”

“I can when you look like you slept in a storage closet.”

“I slept above your storage closet.”

He stares at me, and I stare back.

Marley clicks her pen. “Compromise. Late open, limited menu.”

I hate when reasonable people are right.

A limited menu means less prep. A late open means fewer people see my face before mascara and spite are able to do their best work.

“Ten,” I say.

“Eleven,” Oliver says with a grimace.

“Ten-thirty,” Marley says with a nod.

I sigh. “Fine.”

Marley writes MODIFIED HOURS: 10:30-2:00 PM

“Two?” I’m not sure it’s even worth opening with those hours.

Oliver doesn’t blink. “You get four hours.”

“This is a bakery, Oliver.”