Chapter 7 #4
And it kind of makes everything worse. The kindness and the apology are just a reminder of everything I’m going through right now.
“I really didn’t know,” I whisper.
“I know.” The answer is immediate.
Warren looks at Marley. “Neither did I.”
She turns to him.
“You didn’t know she was my Halston?”
“No.”
“My Halston,” I repeat softly.
Marley shoots me a glare. “Do not make me cry. I’m still mad at you.”
I nod, sniffling.
Warren’s voice stays controlled, but annoyed. “You texted me the address and said to meet you at your friend’s bakery. You didn’t send me a photo of her.”
Marley blinks, then looks at her phone. “I did.”
“You didn’t say her name or that she lives above the bar next door.”
“I thought I did.”
I’m not sure why she would.
“You didn’t.”
“I was driving.”
“You were texting while driving?” He eyes her.
“I use voice-to-text.”
“Still bad.”
She glares at him. “Do not safety-parent me while I’m mad at your penis.”
Oliver presses his fist to his mouth and turns away.
I busy myself moving muffins into the case because if I stand still, I’ll either laugh, cry, or walk directly into this massive man’s chest, and only one of those is currently survivable.
Probably the crying.
I load the first tray into the case, moving on autopilot. Work always lets me breathe.
The bakery takes my chaos and gives it tasks.
Behind me, Warren opens his big mouth. “Your oven needs recalibration.”
I turn slowly, hating the fact that I find him hot. “Warren,” I say stiffly.
His gaze fixes on me, and for one second, the bakery disappears.
Marley clears her throat, and his eyes flicker to her before returning to me. “Your oven is uneven.”
“I’m in crisis.”
“The oven can be in crisis too.”
Marley chokes before sitting back. She stares at her brother with the grief of a sister who just discovered her brother may be accidentally charming her best friend.
“Absolutely not,” she says, weaker this time.
“Agreed,” I say.
He looks at me, that almost annoyed, careful expression on his face. He’s like a rock, and I would give anything to get what we had last night back.
But we cannot. Ever again.
“Last night was one night,” I say.
He nods.
“Great,” I say.
“Good,” he says.
“Perfect.”
“Yes.”
I look at the ground.
Marley picks up the bag Warren gave her and her coffee. “I’m going to sit at the table in the back before I say something that damages us all permanently.”
She walks back and Oliver follows.
And we’re alone.
Not truly alone. Marley and Oliver are just yards from us.
But it feels like it’s just us.
Warren stands near the cooling rack, sleeves down, bun too tight, his tattoos hidden and face controlled as ever. A man I’ve seen completely undone now fully back together.
“I really didn’t know,” I say, my voice low.
“I know. I didn’t either.”
I nod.
He glances to the back where Marley and Oliver are speaking in hushed voices, and then back at me.
“I’m sorry.”
It surprises me. “For?”
“For making things harder with your friend.”
The directness of his words hits me.
“I should have asked your name.”
“I technically gave you one.”
“I knew it wasn’t your real name.” He shrugs with something that can almost, almost be called a smirk.
My brows furrow. “What?”
“Oliver did not seem pleased you used it.”
My lips thin.
“But you were clear about what you wanted.”
Silence settles between us as my cheeks heat.
“Well, we’re adults. And we can survive awkwardness.”
His chin lifts. “Yeah.”
“We can be normal.”
He doesn’t agree with that. Instead, the silence grows even more heavy.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then Marley calls, “I swear to God, if you two are bonding over muffins, I’m calling Dad and telling him Warren has premarital feelings.”
His face goes flat. “Our father does not care.”
“He would if I made it weird enough.”
Warren looks at me like this is somehow my fault, and I smile weakly.
With a final huff, the large man standing in my kitchen looks around. “I’ll leave,” he says quietly, more like he’s reminding himself of something he has to do rather than informing me.
Something in me sinks.
Marley appears. “You need to come back later though.”
I blink. “Why?”
Marley takes a bite of croissant. “Because I asked him to stop by here and help with your oven. It’s possessed.”
I turn to her. “She’s not possessed.”
“It’s uneven,” Warren says.
“That’s not possession.”
Marley takes another bite. “I also may have mentioned that your production system is chaos.”
I stare at her.
She smiles around the pastry. “Friendship includes honesty.”
“Friendship includes betrayal, apparently.”
“You slept with my brother. We’re even.”
I bite my lip. “Fair.”
Warren looks between us, then back at the oven.
“I can look at it later.”
“No,” is all I can manage.
Marley rolls her eyes. “Yes, come by at the end of the day.”
“No,” I repeat.
Warren looks at me. “You don’t have to accept help.”
I throw my hands up. “Good.”
“But the oven is still uneven.”
I glare at him, heat growing in my belly. “Stop seducing me with appliance criticism.”
Silence.
Marley’s croissant slowly lowers, and Oliver appears behind her like a summoned demon of judgment.
Warren stares at me.
My face goes tomato red.
“I mean—”
“No,” Oliver interrupts. “Don’t explain. I want to remember it exactly as it happened.”
Marley covers her mouth and Warren’s gaze drops to the ground. His shoulders shift once. Just once.
Is he… laughing?
Is Warren King silently laughing.
I point at him. “Don’t.”
His almost smile is there. Barely.
“Okay,” Marley says faintly. “Everyone out of the kitchen before I develop a rash.”
Warren clears his throat. “I’ll go.”
He moves toward the front door, and Marley follows him, muttering something about boundaries, brothers, and sexual appliance metaphors.
Oliver lingers in the kitchen doorway, watching me.
I lift both hands. “Please don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re about to.”
He bites his lip. Then, quietly, he says, “You okay?”
It feels like a splash of cold water.
Despite everything he could rag on me for right now, he just wants to make sure I’m okay.
I look toward the front, where Warren and Marley stand by the door, their heads bent together in an argument too low for me to hear. Marley’s face is annoyed, while Warren’s is stiff.
A sibling language I have never spoken.
I watch as Warren looks past her. At me.
I look away.
“I don’t know,” I tell Oliver, and he nods.
The bell jingles. Warren steps outside into the morning, and Marley watches him go for half a second longer than necessary before turning back to us.
She looks tired and irritated, but still here.
I reach for the muffin tray.
“Okay,” I groan. “We open in thirty.”
Oliver stares at me. “You’re still opening?”
Marley returns to the kitchen. “Of course she is.”
I can’t afford to not open because I screwed my best friend’s brother.
I look between my two friends.
“Yes,” I say again, mostly to myself. “We’re opening.”
Because the day has already gone sideways before seven in the morning.
And Bitter Bloom, like me, has survived worse than awkward heat distribution.