Page 131 of A Taste of Vanilla

“You have… a lot of ideas,” Warren says as he shifts uncomfortably.

“That sounds nice.”

“It is.”

Marley’s mouth twitches. “Weaknesses: inconsistent scheduling, inefficient storage, equipment neglect, overreliance on owner’s energy, emotional specials may create demand spikes the bakery cannot meet.”

I open my mouth to argue, but Marley holds up her hand.

She turns the page, her eyes going wide.

“Marley,” Warren mutters.

“Urgent concerns: oven calibration, lock replacement, Halston does not eat during rush,” she reads, pure delight in her voice.

The room goes quiet, and I feel myself stand taller, something in my chest squeezing. When Marley looks back up at me, her eyes are soft.

Warren refuses to look at me.

I want to hate him. On some level, I think I do. But not because he thinks I have weaknesses, or because he hates my chaos. It’s because while all of those things are true, he also seems to actually care. And I can’t have that.

“That’s not a production issue,” I tell him quietly.

His gaze returns to mine. “It affects production, though.”

My throat burns.

“That’s manipulative.”

“It’s factual.”

“Facts can be manipulative.”

He considers this before nodding.

Marley closes the notebook gently, placing it on the tablewhile I turn the mixer off. It’s been on for a while, but the butter and sugar are perfectly fluffy, just the way they should be. The problem many people have is not letting it mix long enough.

I grab the eggs, adding them one at a time before the vanilla.

It’s chemistry. That’s it. Nothing more.

But Warren isn’tonlysex. Not anymore.

It was one night, one mistake. One very large, tattooed mistake with practical coffee and a hidden piercing that I now have to be okay with watching me as I make fuckingcookies.

A man who seems to see everything I miss and yet still respects me and gives me my flowers.

I’m hit with the terrifying realization that this man may fit into my bakery without making it smaller. Maybe.

When it’s all mixed together, I add the flour, mixing just until combined. I add the chocolate and do the same.

I look up. “What?”

His eyes are intense as he watches my every move. “Nothing.”

“You always have something.”

“Not always,” he says as he shakes his head.