Page 51 of A Taste of Vanilla

“You get four hours.”

I scowl at him. “Bossy.”

“Alive.”

I glare at him, but he resumes looking unimpressed. I hate that it works on me.

Marley keeps writing. “Limited menu. What can we reasonably do?”

I hate the word reasonably, and she knows that.

I look toward the kitchen. The dough I prepped yesterday for cinnamon buns should still be usable. Scone mix is portioned. Muffins are fast. Cookies are easy. Croissants are not happeningbecause I refuse to make them the day after one became a symbol of my public emotional collapse.

“No croissants,” I say.

Marley eyes me while Oliver’s jaw softens. “No croissants,” he agrees with a nod.

“Banana-vanilla muffins. Maple scones. Chocolate chip cookies. Basic espresso menu.”

“No weird lattes?” Marley asks.

I hesitate. I love weird lattes. It’s the fun part of this business. The ridiculous part. The part that makes so many customers come in asking, “What did you do this time, Halston?” The part that Grant used to call cute before he started saying “I think you should start making things a little more sophisticated, don’t you?”

“No,” I say before pausing. “Well, actually, one weird latte.”

Oliver sighs like I announced plans to commit tax fraud. Marley smiles.

“The Men Are Decorative at Best latte,” I say.

Oliver closes his eyes. Marley writes it down immediately.

“What’s in it?” she asks.

“Brown sugar, vanilla, cinnamon, oat milk, and cold foam. Oh, and gold sprinkles. I have a lot of them.”

Oliver opens his eyes. “Gold sprinkles?”

“For decoration. Try to keep up.”

“What does that have to do with men?”

I shrug. “Exactly.”

Marley points at me. “There she is.”

We spend the next hour trying to turn my disaster into a bakery day.

Marley texts Lisa with a vague explanation that I have a personal emergency and need to open late. Lisa replies with three heart emojis, one knife emoji, and a simple: “Say less.”

Dev replies: Bestie do I need to wear black? Like mourning or revenge?

I tell Marley to write back: Both.

Oliver takes down chairs, sweeps the front, and complains that my broom is performative at best.

“It has flowers on it,” I say.

He rolls his eyes.