Chapter 8 #2
Warren’s expression blanks. “No one said anything.”
“You had a face.”
A customer near the pastry case clears her throat.
“Sorry,” she says. “Are you open, or is this more of a family fight soft open?”
I close my eyes.
Dev claps once. “We’re open-open. Full drama comes free with purchase.”
The woman grins. “Great. Then I’ll take two muffins and whatever drink makes men decorative.”
“Excellent choice,” Dev sings.
I turn to Marley. “Your brother cannot fix my oven in front of customers.” The ovens need to be ready to go until the end of the day.
Warren looks toward the kitchen. “I can inspect it after closing.”
“I don’t need—”
Agatha makes a popping sound.
Not a small pop. A loud, metallic crack from the kitchen that makes everyone freeze.
The lights above the kitchen flicker once.
Then the smell hits.
Burning sugar, followed by something sharper. Electrical.
Lisa curses. “Turn it off!”
Warren moves fast, slipping past me and through the kitchen doorway before I can even process the sound.
My heart hammers.
The oven’s display goes dark.
Warren reaches it, checks the exterior with the back of his hand, and looks at Lisa.
“Breaker?”
“Back left,” she informs him.
He moves to the panel.
I stand in the middle of my own kitchen, useless and furious as Warren opens the breaker panel and flips one switch off.
The low hum stops, but the smell lingers.
Dev appears in the doorway. “Did Agatha die?”
“Do not say that,” I snap.
Warren crouches in front of the oven, and Oliver joins him, serious now.
Marley hovers behind us all.
For a moment, no one jokes.
Warren opens the oven door carefully. Heat rolls out as he looks inside, then at the tray on the lower rack.
The scones are ruined. Burned along one side. Pale and sad near the other.
I stare at them.
It is stupid, but the sight nearly breaks me more than the email. It’s just another thing on the list of broken things I have to repair.
Another thing that needs money.
Another thing proving I’m not in control.
Warren’s eyes find mine, and he sees it.
I shake my head.
“What?”
“Don’t look like that.”
His brows furrow.
“Like you’re about to be helpful.”
“I am.”
I scoff, and Marley steps in, her hand landing on my shoulder.
I turn to her too fast. “No. I know. I know everyone is trying to help, and that’s great. Very generous. Very emotional support sitcom. But this is my bakery. Mine. And I cannot have one more thing happen where someone walks in and tells me what’s wrong with it.”
Everyone is still.
I take a breath.
The words keep coming.
“Grant told me that my ideas needed refining. His father called me promising like I was a student waiting to be graded. His mother is emailing my wedding photographer like I’m a scheduling inconvenience and canceling the wedding didn’t cost me four thousand dollars and my entire future.
And now my oven is dying in front of customers and everyone is looking at me like I’m three seconds from collapsing.
And honestly, maybe I am! But can everyone please stop watching? ”
No one moves.
I press both hands to my face. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly, regretting the outburst.
Marley’s voice is gentle. “Don’t apologize.”
“I yelled.”
“You were due.” Oliver nods.
Warren stands slowly.
When he speaks, his voice is calm.
“I’m not telling you what’s wrong with the bakery,” he says, and I lower my hands. “I’m telling you what’s wrong with the oven. It’s a different thing.”
And I get what he means. It’s fixable.
I breathe.
My bakery is not a disaster because one machine failed. I’m not a failure because I need help. Bitter Bloom is not suddenly less mine because someone knows how to open the breaker panel.
“I know that,” I say quietly.
“Do you?”
I want to throw a muffin at him.
“No,” I admit.
Warren nods. “I’ll inspect it,” he says, “and then we can decide what to do.”
I swallow.
“You don’t decide?”
“No.”
“You don’t take over?”
“No.”
“You don’t rearrange my whole kitchen while I’m in the bathroom?”
His gaze moves briefly over the prep tables.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Warren.”
“I won’t.”
“That pause was suspicious.”
“Your flour bins are inefficiently placed.”
“My flour bins are fine.”
Marley looks between all of us and exhales slowly. “Okay, great. Crisis one: Agatha. Crisis two: Whitakers. Crisis three: whatever the hell this is.” She gestures vaguely between Warren and me.
“This is nothing,” I say.
“Correct,” Warren says.
My eyes flicker to him, and I stop the frown before it fully forms.
Marley watches me. “Oh for the love of God.”
“I didn’t say anything!”
“I’ve never seen you look so annoyed.”
Dev appears in the doorway. “Customer wants to know if the Men Are Decorative at Best Latte can be made with almond milk and extra spite.”
I close my eyes. “Yes.”
“Great. Also, Mrs. Alvarez says if Agatha needs a priest, her cousin knows one.”
“Tell Mrs. Alvarez I appreciate her spiritual network.”
Dev nods and disappears.
For the next hour, we run Bitter Bloom on one smaller oven, caffeine, and communal denial.
Lisa adjusts the bake schedule with the calm brutality of a woman who has raised three children and therefore fears nothing.
Dev works the front and tells customers Agatha is “taking a personal day.” Oliver moves between the bar and bakery, pretending not to help while very clearly helping.
Marley handles social media, posting a picture of the Men Are Decorative at Best Latte with the caption:
LIMITED RUN. NO CONTEXT. FULL SPITE.
We get a rush, and the latte sells out within forty-eight minutes.
Warren works in the kitchen without taking over. That, I fear, is the worst part.
He inspects the oven, tests temperature zones, checks the seal, pulls the lower panel, and asks before moving anything. Every time. Even when it is obvious. Even when asking is inefficient.
“Can I shift the prep table?”
I stare at him. He stares back.
“Fine,” I say finally. “But if you judge what’s under it, I’m denying everything.”
“It’s probably just flour.”
“There may be a gummy worm.”
His brows furrow. “Why?”
“Emotional support snack.”
He says nothing.
He moves the prep table. There are three stray sprinkles, one pen, a dusting of flour, and yes, a half-eaten gummy worm. Red and green.
Warren looks at it.
I cross my arms. “It was a hard week.”
He sweeps it into the dustpan and throws it away without comment.
By noon, the rush slows.
Agatha remains off, cooling like a disgraced duchess. Warren stands beside her with a notepad he found somewhere.
I lean against the table. “Please tell me you’re not writing a eulogy.”
“She needs a new heating element and probably a thermostat.”
“How bad is probably?”
“Moderate.”
“Moderate as in normal or Warren moderate?”
His gaze lifts. “What’s Warren moderate?”