Page 150 of A Taste of Vanilla

Dev appears next to me, wiping his hands on his apron. “Dark chocolate is sexy.”

Marley whips out her phone. “Dev, you’re a genius.” She lifts it, but pauses, waiting for me to say it’s okay.

I nod. “Post it.”

She smirks. “Gladly.”

Warren says nothing from the kitchen, his large arms crossed over his broad chest. His lips curve upward, and he nods. Just once.

This is my choice.

twelve

. . .

Praise and Other Things

WARREN

The bakery isdark when I arrive, which makes me feel better. I’d much rather be early than late.

Marley had given me a key last night with a blue ribbon tied around the ring and a look that suggested I would absolutely be blamed for anything that went wrong whether I caused it or not.

“For emergencies,” she said.

“What kind of emergencies?”

“Halston-shaped ones.”

It wasn’t helpful, but I took the key anyway.

Which is why I’m standing in Bitter Bloom before sunrise, the bakery that belongs to a woman I have known for about a week and have spent far too much time thinking about.

It would be easier if I only wanted her. Wanting someone is simple. We all want things. Ideally, we wouldn’t want our sisters’ best friends, but life is rarely perfect.

Inside, the kitchen is cold and quiet without the hum of the oven and the scrape of trays. Halston isn’t running around talking to herself, and Dev isn’t yelling about how much he loves the new movie coming out.

It feels empty.

It’s just me, dark counters, stacked bowls, and silence.

I set my bag down on the table and take out my clipboard—a necessity for my trial opening shift.

Halston is going to hate it, but I need the visibility. She can’t shut a clipboard and pretend not to see it. I need the tasks in order, time-blocked, with room for notes.

But despite her hatred for it, I know she’s going to read every word.

I turn on the small overhead light and start to prep.

When I’m done with what I have to do for the time block, I walk around the kitchen and organize, stacking the sheet pans by size and moving the flour bins half a foot closer to the mixer because for some reason there’s been a giant gap between them.

I hear her before I see her.

Keys jingle, the door opens, and footsteps make their way into the kitchen. When she sees me, her eyes are round and her mouth is open as if in a silent scream.

“You’re early,” I say, and she just stares at me, her hand pressed to her oversized blue sweatshirt.

“You’re inside my locked bakery before sunrise with office supplies in your hand.”