Page 113 of A Taste of Vanilla

For a moment, no one jokes.

Warren opens the oven door carefully. Heat rolls out as he looks inside, then at the tray on the lower rack.

The scones are ruined. Burned along one side. Pale and sad near the other.

I stare at them.

It is stupid, but the sight nearly breaks me more than the email. It’s just another thing on the list of broken things I have to repair.

Another thing that needs money.

Another thing proving I’m not in control.

Warren’s eyes find mine, and he sees it.

I shake my head.

“What?”

“Don’t look like that.”

His brows furrow.

“Like you’re about to be helpful.”

“I am.”

I scoff, and Marley steps in, her hand landing on my shoulder.

I turn to her too fast. “No. I know. I know everyone is trying to help, and that’s great. Very generous. Very emotional support sitcom. But this is my bakery. Mine. And I cannot have one more thing happen where someone walks in and tells me what’s wrong with it.”

Everyone is still.

I take a breath.

The words keep coming.

“Grant told me that my ideas needed refining. His father called me promising like I was a student waiting to be graded. His mother is emailing my wedding photographer like I’m a scheduling inconvenience and canceling the wedding didn’t cost me four thousand dollars and my entire future. And now my oven is dying in front of customers and everyone is looking at me like I’m three seconds from collapsing. And honestly, maybe I am! But can everyone please stop watching?”

No one moves.

I press both hands to my face. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly, regretting the outburst.

Marley’s voice is gentle. “Don’t apologize.”

“I yelled.”

“You were due.” Oliver nods.

Warren stands slowly.

When he speaks, his voice is calm.

“I’m not telling you what’s wrong with the bakery,” he says, and I lower my hands. “I’m telling you what’s wrong with the oven. It’s a different thing.”

And I get what he means. It’s fixable.

I breathe.