Page 270 of A Taste of Vanilla

I sit in Oliver’s office with Marley beside me. Oliver stands at the doorway pretending to read a liquor invoice upside down.

“I wanted to talk to you about my lease. I don’t really understand some of the language, and I want to protect my business without making a public mess I can’t take back.”

“Good,” she says. “Let’s start there.”

So we do. She lists her fees, and I okay them. After that, she explains the clauses: the renewal window and the property assessment language.

I take notes.

Afterward, she helps me draft a formal letter preserving my renewal rights and requesting written clarification of anybusiness assessment before helping me outline communications for vendors.

Elise comes at noon.

Not through the front door during the rush, but through the side door, as Oliver requested, so we don’t make a fuss. “I don’t need this place to turn into a soap opera if they’re watching her,” he mutters.

She looks nervous.

We bring her into Oliver’s office, and she places another folder on the desk. “More call notes. A screenshot from Grant’s new number. He asked if I had talked to you.”

I chew my bottom lip. “What did you say?”

The corner of her mouth tilts. “I blocked him.”

“Good.”

She nods, her eyes moving to Marley and back to me before she leaves.

By three, Marley has a relaunch post ready.

I read it on her laptop while Oliver cleans glasses behind us.

Bitter Bloom has always been sweet, strange, playful, precise, and a little too much. We’re done pretending that’s a flaw.

My chest aches.

This month, we’re going Full Bloom: salted caramel banana lattes, Halston’s map cookie boxes, new coffee flights, late-night bites at Saints & Sinners, and game night specials. A menu built around the belief that joy can have structure and sweetness can have teeth.

We are not returning to the old Bitter Bloom. We are not shrinking into someone else’s idea of serious. We are becoming more ourselves.

Come hungry. Bring friends. Trust the weird specials.

I sit back, my eyes burning.

Marley’s fingers hover over the keyboard. “Too much?”

I laugh. “No, not at all.”

Her eyes soften.

“It’s exactly enough.”

Oliver sighs. “I hate that it’s that good.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” She beams.

We schedule the post for six.

By five forty-five, the bakery is in full-on preparation chaos.