Page 157 of A Taste of Vanilla

“No.”

“A tasteful empire.”

“Absolutely not.”

“A whimsical but structured matriarchy.”

I consider that. “Closer.”

She beams. “You’re learning.”

“Yes.”

“Careful. Soon you’ll be naming lattes and weaponizing glitter. Ever thought of putting it in someone’s AC?”

“I will not be doing that.”

“I also didn’t think you’d be weaponizing your forearms, and yet.” She watches me as I pick up the muffin tray.

Some accusations don’t need a defense.

She follows me to Agatha, opens the oven door, and pulls out the trays already inside before I slide in the new ones.

The case is arranged, the baked goods are cooling, and the scones look beautiful. Coffee is brewed, and the chalkboard is updated, although she made me erase what I wrote because my handwriting looked “deeply divorced from whimsy.”

The Discipline Issue still sits at the top of the board, and when it’s time to open, she watches the front door like it may bite her.

The review is still out in the world. Barrett Whitaker is probably out there, buttoning his linen shirt and thinking about what else he can do to punch down.

But what he doesn’t understand is that Halston has heart, and that’s all that really matters. She won’t stop.

She stands behind the counter with both hands flat on it, her shoulders pulled back, and flour all over her.

“You ready?” I ask, coming to stand next to her.

“No.”

Her lips curve up, and so do mine.

“Open anyway?” I ask.

She takes a breath, and then another. “Yes,” she says. “Open anyway.”

She walks to the door and flips the sign to OPEN.

The lock clicks, and the morning begins.

Behind her, I whisper, “Good.”

She stills and looks over her shoulder. “You’re doing that on purpose now.”

“Yep,” I say.

Because I am. Because she deserves praise and she needs to know that she doesn’t need to be smaller to get it.

Her scones and muffins are far better than they were yesterday. Her hands are steadier, too.

She deserves it because she opened anyway.