Page 52 of A Taste of Vanilla

“And it sweeps.”

“Reluctantly.”

I stand with my hand on my hip. “That’s because you’re using it with bad energy.”

He ignores me.

Marley handles the register, cancels two morning pickups with enough charm that both customers somehow apologize despite not knowing what happened, and makes a sign for the door.

OPENING LATE

10:30-2

LIMITED MENU

FULL DRAMA

Oliver stares at it. “No.”

Marley stares back. “Yes.”

“You cannot putfull dramaon a business sign.”

“She absolutely can,” I say from the mixer.

“You’re both unwell.”

“And yet thriving,” Marley says.

“Debatable,” I mutter.

By ten fifteen, the bakery smells better than ever. Banana muffins cool on the racks, maple scones are perfectly golden on the edges, and chocolate chip cookies are stacked under glass. We have drip coffee ready to go and the espresso machine hisses as it gets ready for the first latte.

I tie my apron. It’s pink, embroidered with flowers along the pocket.

Grant once said it was cute.

I add my hoops, reapply my mascara in the bathroom mirror, and fix the bow in my ponytail.

My eyes are still swollen, my heart still hurts, but my hands know what to do. They always do.

At ten twenty-nine, Oliver stands by the doors with his arms crossed. “Are you sure? I can tell everyone to go the fuck home.” His eyes flicker to the short line already forming outside.

I look around my bakery. It’s small but bright. Pale pink walls, white tile, pink chairs, a flower wall,little vases on the tables, shelves lining one wall with coffee beans, local jams, and boxes of cookies tied with ribbon.

Bitter Bloom started off as a joke in my father’s old recipe notebook. A name scribbled beside a sketch of a cake covered in sugar flowers.

Bitter for coffee, bloom for everything else.

I opened it at twenty-four with no college degree, no business pedigree, and a loan that made me physically nauseous. I cried over spreadsheets at my kitchen counter, burned too many pots of caramel, misplaced cupcakes, forgot a flour delivery, and once, in my first year, I accidentally ordered fifty pounds of sesame seeds instead of five and spent three months putting sesame on everything like a woman being haunted by a bagel ghost.

Then Barrett Whitaker walked in. Grant’s father. A local legend for being a food critic with absolutely terrifying eyebrows.

I wasn’t dating Grant yet. Not seriously, anyway. We had met at a charity event Oliver dragged me to because he said there would be networking opportunities, which was a deeply annoying way to say free alcohol and tiny appetizers.

Grant was charming. Barrett was polite in the way powerful men are polite when they are deciding whether you matter.

Two weeks later, he came into Bitter Bloom.