Page 160 of A Taste of Vanilla

“She’s not on yet.”

I grip the edge of the table harder. “I said I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m coping.”

“Badly.”

I glare at him, and he just looks back at me, unmoved and infuriating and maybe a little bit beautiful.

“I can’t do this today,” I say.

“What?”

I gesture to the kitchen. “This. The pain. I can’t sit down. I can’t be delicate while my bakery gets publicly dissected by a,” I choke, “a man.”

Warren’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes.

“I can’t afford to look weak,” I say before I can stop myself.

The words fall between us, ugly and honest.

He’s quiet for a moment, and I prepare myself for the soft reassurance that always makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Instead, he sets his own coffee down on the counter.

“Pain isn’t weakness,” he says.

I laugh once. “Great. Put that on a mug.”

“It’s a constraint.”

I blink. “What?”

“Pain,” he says. “It’s not a weakness. It’s a constraint.”

I stare at him.

He steps closer. “When an oven runs hot on one side, you adjust it. When dough proofs too fast, you change the timing. When staff capacity is low, you reduce output or simplify production. A constraint is not a moral failure; it’s information.”

“I’m not dough.”

“My point is, you need to modify your output, Halston. It is not a failure.”

The cramp hits again, sharper than the last. My breath catches before I can hide it, and because I am a woman with survival instincts, I immediately reach for the rolling pin like the problem is a lack of laminated pastry.

But the second I bend, pain spears through me, low and hot. My hand slips on the table, and the rolling pin flies away.

Warren moves, then stops. He doesn’t touch me.

“Can I help you?” he asks quietly.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“No,” I say, but my voice feels too tight.

He nods once. “Okay.”

I stay braced over the table until the worst of it eases, breathing carefully through my nose. When I straighten, Warren is still exactly where he was, watching me.