Page 162 of A Taste of Vanilla

Warren: laminate turn two.

Halston: syrup flavor check.

Lisa: case restock.

Dev: front setup, signage, mobile order pause if needed.

Reduce scones by half.

Add cookie dough to afternoon to-do list.

In the corner, he writes: ask before doing anything drastic.

He tears the page from the notebook and slides it to me. “Suggested.”

I shake my head. “This is too organized.”

He stares at me.

“It’s making me itchy.”

“I assumed.”

“I’m on there.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“You said you wanted to keep working. We’re adjusting for you.”

My face does something. I’m not sure what, but it’s something fragile and gentle and all too embarrassing. I look down before he can see it.

“This is acceptable,” I say finally.

“Acceptable?”

“Don’t get greedy.”

Another wave of pain twists, lower and deeper within me. I grip the paper hard enough to wrinkle it, and Warren’s eyes move to my hand.

“Do you have a heating pad?” he asks.

“It’s upstairs,” I grunt.

“Where?”

“Blue bin by the stairs.”

“May I get it?”

My first thought is to say no. Upstairs is my space. My unfinished, vulnerable space. He’s already seen too much of me there. All of me.

But I need my heating pad.

“Second blue bin. Not the first,” I say with a nod.

He leaves without another word, grabbing my keys from the hook where I keep them.