Chapter 8 #3
“Something everyone else would call catastrophic but you refuse to because feelings are inefficient.”
He ignores me. “It’s fixable.”
The relief is immediate.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“How much?”
“I’ll get the part at cost.”
I stiffen.
His eyes narrow slightly. “What?”
“I can pay for it.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“You were about to offer.”
“I was about to get the part at cost.”
“With what intention?”
“To help.”
I study him.
My face heats. He doesn’t deserve being snapped at. “I’m sorry,” I say.
He pauses. “For what?”
“For assuming.”
He nods.
I’m about to say something else when Marley comes in, her phone in hand. Her face is pale.
My stomach tightens. “What now?”
She looks at me. “I think you need to see this.”
I don’t want to.
Every cell in my body rejects the idea of one more thing.
But I take her phone anyway.
It’s an article.
A local food column.
Barrett Whitaker’s column.
My chest goes cold before I read the headline.
BALTIMORE’S SWEETEST DARLING MAY BE LOSING ITS BALANCE
No.
I read anyway.
The column is not technically cruel, which somehow makes it ten times worse.
Barrett is much too polished for obvious cruelty. He does not say my bakery is bad. He does not mention Grant. He does not mention our cancelled engagement or Elise or his son’s desk or the ring rotting at the bottom of a Whitaker mug.
He simply writes that Bitter Bloom once felt fresh, playful, and full of promise, but recent visits suggest the shop might be leaning too hard into gimmick over craft.
Gimmick.
He praises my early work, then uses it against me.
He mentions an inconsistent menu identity. Overly whimsical drink names that make the shop feel too young.
Pastries that occasional mistake charm for discipline.
Discipline.
My eyes burn.
Then, the final paragraph.
The mark of a lasting bakery is not brightness but restraint. In a city increasingly crowded with sugar-forward concepts, one hopes Bitter Bloom remembers that sweetness alone cannot sustain a legacy.
I stare at the word legacy.
Legacy.
A Whitaker word.
To them, a weapon.
The bakery tilts.
Marley grabs my arm. “Halston.”
I hand her the phone back carefully, like any sudden movement may shatter me.
Oliver’s voice is low. “When did he publish it?”
“Twenty minutes ago,” Marley responds.
Twenty minutes. While I was making lattes. While Agatha died. While Warren crouched on my kitchen floor fixing the part of my life that’s actually mechanical.
Barrett Whitaker has taken his first public swing. And because he is Barrett Whitaker, people will listen.
I can’t breathe.
Gimmick. Charm. Discipline. Legacy.
They’re all just words. Grant’s voice dressed in his father’s vocabulary.
You’re too much.
You need refining.
You’re cute.
Promising.
Not enough.
My hands curl into fists, and for one wild second, I want to cry.
But anger moves in quickly.
No more Whitaker men get to stand at a distance and name me. Never again. No more.
I take Marley’s phone out of her hand and open the article. I read the headline again.
And I laugh.
Everyone stares.
“That laugh concerns me,” Oliver whispers.
“It should,” Marley whispers back.
I hand her phone back and march to the chalkboard where I list the specials I want to start working on.
The current special is the Men Are Decorative at Best Latte.
I erase the bottom line and pick up my chalk.
My hand is steady.
TODAY’S SPECIAL:
THE LEGACY LATTE
SMOKED CARAMEL, ESPRESSO, AND VANILLA COLD FOAM
SWEETNESS SUSTAINS PLENTY, ACTUALLY
Marley makes a sound behind me.
“Jesus,” Oliver says.
Warren says nothing.
I step back, chalk dust on my fingers.
“That’s going to make it worse,” Oliver says.
I look at him. “Maybe.”
Marley is staring at the board with tears in her eyes. “But you’re doing it anyway?”
I nod.
I look back at Warren, his dark eyes holding mine. “You’re sure?” he asks.
It’s the same question from last night. Different context, and yet it feels like the same weight.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure.”
His gaze stays on mine for a moment, and he nods. “Good.”
Just that.
Good.
My throat tightens.
Marley wipes under her eye and immediately scowls like the tear committed a crime. “Fine. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.” She lifts her phone. “Picture.”
Oliver groans. “No.”
“Yes. We post it before the Whitaker worshippers show up and sniff for blood.”
“I hate social media,” Oliver moans.
“Social media hates you too, but it’s still useful.”
Dev appears around the door. “Did someone say content?”
Marley points at him. “You. Make the latte look slutty.”
Dev nods solemnly. “I was born for this.”
Lisa comes in, reads the chalkboard, and smiles slowly. “There she is,” she says.
I look at her. And Marley. And Oliver. And Warren.
My imperfect bakery with one wounded oven, a spite latte, an article trying to make me feel smaller, and one large complication standing too quietly in my kitchen.
I clap. “Okay. Let’s sell some gimmicks.”
Marley lifts her phone, and Oliver mutters something about needing a liquor license for the bakery.
Warren looks at me like he’s seeing me. The full me.
For a moment, I let him.