Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Agatha the Oven Chooses Violence
HALSTON
By eight o’clock in the morning, I have learned three important things.
One: It’s impossible to open a bakery after discovering your anonymous one-night stand is your best friend’s older brother.
Two: Muffins do not care about emotional devastation. They either rise or they don’t, and my banana batch has risen beautifully despite being baked in what Warren has called “an uneven heat environment.”
Three: Marley King is capable of being furious, protective, embarrassed, and hungry at the exact same time.
The last one is the least surprising.
Marley sits at the table closest to the pastry case eating the scone her brother brought her with an expression that makes me a little scared.
Oliver sits across from her with a mug of black coffee he stole from my pot, one ankle propped against the opposite knee, looking far too comfortable for a man who has just witnessed the collapse of several social norms.
“You look smug,” Marley tells him.
Oliver doesn’t look up from his phone. “I’m rarely smug.”
“You’re literally always smug.”
He sighs. “I’m usually correct. People just constantly confuse the two.”
“Were you correct when you let my brother leave your bar with my best friend?”
Oliver’s eyes find hers, his phone dropping into his lap. “Are we doing this again?”
“Yes.”
“I did not let anyone do anything. Halston is a grown adult; your brother is physically impossible to remove from a room without equipment; and I provided verbal opposition numerous times.”
“You provided water.”
“And verbal opposition.”
I set a tray of chocolate chip cookies in the case harder than necessary. “Maybe we can discuss literally anything else?” I ask.
They both look at me.
“No?”
Marley takes a bite of her scone, and Oliver goes back to his phone.
The bakery has been open for twenty minutes, and somehow, the world has not ended yet.
Mrs. Alvarez came in, ordered a Men Are Decorative at Best Latte, and told me my hair looked like it held secrets.
Dev arrived ten minutes later wearing black jeans, a black t-shirt, and a black beanie even though it’s already eighty-five degrees outside.
When I asked why, he said, “We’re still mourning and planning revenge. ”
Lisa comes through the back entrance and pauses at the kitchen door. Her gaze moves from Marley’s tense shoulders to Oliver’s grim face, then to my overly bright smile and the cooling racks full of muffins.
“Nope,” she says simply before putting on an apron and labeling cookie bags.
Lisa is wise.
For the first hour, my hands stay busy. Pull shots, steam milk, box scones, refill napkins, smile at customers, and pretend that I’m not aware of the exact spot in my bakery where Warren had stood and looked at me after learning my name.
I push the image out of my head and scrub the counter. Again. Because it’s already clean.
I wipe harder.
Dev leans around the espresso machine. “Bestie, if you scrub that anymore, it’s going to ask to talk to the manager.”
“I’m cleaning.”
“You’re basically attacking.”
Dev smiles sweetly and hands a customer her latte. “Have a beautiful day. Men are decorative at best!”
The woman lifts her drink in agreement and leaves.
Marley watches from the table. “That drink is going to become a problem.”
I shrug. “It’s a bestseller.”
“That’s what I mean.”
“I’ve been saying that about her drinks for years.”
“They’re whimsical.”
“They’re public diary entries with foam.”
I pout. “People like vulnerability.”
“People like sugar.”
“Both can be true.”
Marley’s phone buzzes on the table. She looks down, and her lips flatten.
I freeze. “Is it him?” I ask.
She glances up. “Which him?”
There are far too many problematic men in the broad narrative of my life.
“Grant.”
“No.” She winces. “It’s Warren.”
My stomach flips as I try very hard not to look interested.
Marley reads the text aloud in a flat voice. “I’m coming back with tools.”
Oliver puts his coffee down. “Of course he is.”
I grip the edge of the counter. “Why?”
Marley keeps reading. “The lock is unacceptable and the oven is inefficient.”
“The oven is fine.”
Oliver looks toward the kitchen. “It burned the left edge of my pretzel bites last month.”
“That was user error.”
“I was reheating them.”
“At five hundred degrees.”
Marley is typing something with aggressive thumbs. “What are you saying?” I ask.
“If he comes back here, I’m making him apologize to us all again.”
Oliver nods.
My phone buzzes in my apron pocket.
It’s not Marley or Oliver, because they’re here. It’s not Grant, because he’s blocked.
Instead, it’s an email notification. One I almost ignore.
Then I see the sender.
Elsa Brielle—Wedding Photography
My throat closes, and I step back from the counter.
Marley’s eyes are on me in an instant. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Halston.”
“It’s—it’s wedding stuff.” My voice is hoarse.
I called three vendors last week, but apparently untangling a future is about as efficient as peeling old packing tape. Every time I think I’ve peeled up one corner, another strip is stuck to me.
I take a second to hype myself up before opening the email.
Hi Halston,
I’m so sorry to bother you. I know you mentioned the wedding has been called off, and again, I’m heartbroken for you. I only wanted to check because Caroline Whitaker reached out asking whether the date was officially available, and I didn’t want to respond without confirming with you first.
Sending love,
Elsa
I read it once. Then twice.
Then a third time, because apparently my brain wanted to make sure the knife had gone in at the proper angle.
Caroline Whitaker had reached out to my wedding photographer.
Caroline Whitaker, the pearl-wearing patron saint of emotional manipulation, had contacted my vendor about the date.
The date.
The date that had belonged to the wedding I had cancelled because her son had cheated on me.
A sad sound leaves my mouth. It’s small, but Marley is up and next to me in a second.
Oliver stands too. Dev stops mid-steam, and Lisa appears in the kitchen doorway holding a tray of croissants.
“What happened?” Marley asks.
I turn the phone toward her, and she reads the email, silently mouthing the words.
Her eyes narrow and her jaw sets. She’s angry. Not funny angry. Not even angry like this morning.
A quiet anger that simmers.
Oliver reads it over her shoulder. “Jesus,” he says.
I laugh once. “Did she think I was going to forget to cancel? Did she want to book the photographer for Grant and Elise’s office wedding?”
“Don’t,” Marley says softly.
“I’m serious. Maybe they can do the ceremony on the desk. It’s meaningful.”
Oliver bites his bottom lip.
Dev whispers, “I can make a playlist.”
“Dev!” Lisa snaps.
“What? I said it quietly.”
I set the phone on the counter.
Caroline has not called me. She has not apologized or acknowledged what Grant did. She’s gone around me, neat and polished, already trying to repurpose the wreckage.
That is Whitaker behavior. If something is broken, they don’t mourn it. They manage the optics.
Marley touches my arm. “I’ll handle it.”
“No.” I shake my head, straightening.
Her eyes flicker from Oliver to me.
“No,” I say again, as if convincing myself. “I’ll handle it.”
I open the email and type.
Hi Elsa,
Thank you for checking with me first. The wedding is officially cancelled. The date may be released according to the terms of our contract, but please do not share any personal details with Caroline Whitaker or anyone else from the Whitaker family.
Thank you for being kind.
Halston
My thumb hovers over Send, my hand shaking.
Then I hit it.
Oliver slides a cup of water toward me from seemingly nowhere.
“I hate when you hydrate me through crisis,” I say.
“Lisa handed it to me. Drink.”
I drink.
Because apparently I have become obedient in exactly one category.
The front bell jingles.
I look up, expecting a customer, and freeze when I see Warren standing in the doorway.
Tools in one hand, a measuring tape in the other.
I choke on the water.
Marley turns slowly. “You,” she hisses.
The man looks us over, his gaze stopping on me for half a second too long.
“Door was unlocked,” he says, pointing behind him.
“We’re open,” Marley replies, as if she works here.
Sometimes, she practically does.
“Yeah.”
“You can’t just walk into places because the door is unlocked.”
Warren looks toward the back where customers occupy almost all the tables. “It’s a business.” His gaze moves to my face, and his eyes narrow just a fraction. “What happened?”
I hate that he notices.
“Nothing,” I say.
Oliver snorts, but Marley scoffs. “Whitaker nonsense.”
His blue eyes darken. “Grant?” he asks.
My stomach twists when I hear his name from Warren’s mouth.
“His mom. It’s fine.”
He looks at me for a long second. Then, finally, “Fine usually means handled badly.”
Oliver almost looks offended. “That’s usually my line.”
“It’s a common observation.”
“Why are you here?” Marley barks.
Warren looks befuddled. “I texted you.”
She stares at him, and he huffs.
“I’m here because the lock on her apartment door is bad, the lock on her back door is worse, and her oven has uneven heat.”
“My oven has a name,” I say quietly.
Everyone looks at me.
Dev leans forward from the espresso machine. “It does?”
“It does now,” I say.
Oliver rolls his eyes. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Halston.”
“My car has a name.”
“Your car is a dirty liar.”
“Yet she has an identity.”
Marley looks briefly pleased. “What’s the oven’s name?”
I stare at the oven through the kitchen doorway. It stares back.
Stainless steel. Slightly temperamental. Loyal but flawed.
“Agatha.”
Warren blinks. “Agatha,” he repeats.
“Yep.”
“Your oven’s name is Agatha.”
“She has a rich inner life.”
“The left side underheats.”
“Many women have that issue.”
Oliver whispers, “I need this day to end.”
Dev calls from the espresso machine, “I support Agatha!”
Lisa says, “Agatha needs maintenance.”
“Thank you,” Warren says, gesturing toward her.
She nods. “You’re welcome.”
I point at her. “Betrayal.”
She shrugs.
Warren looks at me again with an almost smile.
Marley smacks me. “No.”