Page 145 of A Taste of Vanilla

“Good morning!” I sing, thankful that my voice still works.

“Morning.” She approaches the counter. “Are you still doing the Legacy Latte?”

I should be relieved. That’s what I wanted, isn’t it? People ordering it. Showing up and proving people wrong.

But her tone feels off, and my defenses rise. It feels, in this moment, like she’s asking less because she wants one and more because she wants to see what kind of woman still sells a drink after being scolded for it online.

“We are,” I say.

Her eyes flick to the chalkboard.

SWEETNESS SUSTAINS PLENTY, ACTUALLY is still written beneath the specials from yesterday.

Her mouth forms a small shape that puts a pit in my stomach.

Consideration.

“Actually, I’ll just get a black coffee,” she says.

The wordjustlands hard on my heart.

Because not many people come in here asking forjusta black coffee. We offer it, sure. But this is a bakery where people usually come in wanting color, foam, and names in Dev’s signature script that make them laugh.

“Of course,” Dev says, stepping in before I can say anything.

He rings her up.

I stand there, my bench scraper still in my hand, and feel myself shrink.

The woman takes her coffee and leaves without another word, and the door closes behind her.

No one says anything.

I turn to the kitchen. “I have dough to finish,” I mumble.

I hear Marley say my name, but it feels like she’s ten miles away. I ignore her.

Not because I don’t want her around, but because if I stop moving for even a second, the review wins. I need to work first and have a mental breakdown later.

I roll out the dough and fold it one more time.

I turn it.

Roll it out, fold it again.

Wrap it up.

Place it in the walk-in.

My hands have always known what to do, even if my brain is in a burning building.

Warren stays at the other end, watching me work as he pretends to examine my organization.

Oliver disappears next door, starting his early-morning tasks, then returns twenty minutes later to grab a coffee with a lookthat tells me he’s considered several crimes and reluctantly chosen coffee instead.

Marley sits in the back corner of the bakery, scrolling on her phone with a miserable look on her face.

I stop in the doorway and watch her, and when she winces, I leave the comfort of my kitchen to sit with her.