Chapter 12 #2
I know she knows. Because I remember her hands in my hair and the way she looked at me when she realized how much of me had been hidden under long sleeves and quiet answers. I remember her face when she learned that calm doesn’t always mean gentle.
Her gaze dips to my forearms and back to the bananas.
She knows.
I clear my throat. “Vanilla isn’t boring.”
“I’m sure you have a long explanation as to why.”
I exhale through my nose and look at the recipe. “Vanilla carries flavor. It makes the sweetness of a cookie warmer and brings out flavors that would normally be overpowered. If you don’t add vanilla, most people can’t name what’s wrong, but they know that something is flat.”
Her smile fades a little.
I keep going.
“It matters more than most people think. It changes everything around it for the better.”
She looks at me for a second too long, and the kitchen suddenly feels much warmer.
“That was actually really beautiful,” she says quietly.
I’m confused. “It was just technical.”
“Sure.”
“It was!”
“Of course.” She looks down at the bowl and mashes the bananas once more. “Technical.”
I should let it end.
“Using enough of it is important.”
Her eyes flick up. “Enough vanilla?”
“Yeah.”
She nods. “Right.”
I look at the recipe, but I feel her eyes on me.
Neither of us says anything else, but there’s a very obvious thing sitting between us.
Finally, she clears her throat and reaches for the next ingredient.
The morning light creeps through the windows. Dev will arrive soon, then Lisa, and Marley may appear with a need for coffee. Oliver, who seems to only sleep five hours a night, will make his way in and complain about whatever noise we’re making.
But right now, the bakery belongs to us.
The muffins are in the oven, and the scones have just come out. The croissants are resting, and Halston is leaning against the prep table looking at me like I’m both useful and the biggest problem in her life.
If we’re being honest, she’s both in mine.
“I like this,” she says suddenly.
I still. “The opening flow?”
“Yeah.” She rubs her hands, not looking at me. “And this.”
“This?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
“I need clarity.”
She sighs. “I like working with you. Which is unfortunate, because you’re bossy.”
I almost smile. “I’m not bossy.”
“You said ‘come here’ in your scary bread voice yesterday.”
I step a little closer. “I like working with you too,” I say.
Her smile softens. “Because my production flow is a cry for help?”
“Partly.”
She rolls her eyes.
“And because you’re good at what you do.”
She stills. “You say that a lot.”
“You don’t believe it enough.”
She looks away. “I believe some of it.”
“Then I’ll keep saying it until you believe it more.”
Her throat moves as she swallows. “That sounds like a long-term project.”
The words feel like an anvil to the chest. Long-term is something I’ve never done and haven’t ever wanted to do.
“I think we can get it done pretty quickly,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her smile shrinks. “Of course.”
The building settles, and the pipes rattle. We both jump, looking toward the front like someone is about to catch us.
But it’s no one.
Halston claps her hands. “Alright. Scones are out. Muffins are ready. Croissants are resting. We are basically a corporation now.”
“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.
Halston looks at me for another second, fighting a smile.
This time, when I almost smile back, she beams.