Chapter 9
nine
. . .
Mood is Not a Measurement
HALSTON
Warren has been in Maryland for less than forty-eight hours and he’s already caused more damage to my life than Agatha.
While Agatha has a temperamental left side and the audacity to betray me during a rush, Warren has broad shoulders and the audacity to be Marley’s brother after putting his mouth on several parts of me that friendship law has not yet recovered from.
They’re both problems, and yet, only one of them is currently standing in the middle of my kitchen with a notebook and a severe grimace.
A notebook. In my bakery. My sacred, flour-dusted, butter-scented kingdom of chaos and caffeine. I’ve had two notebooks in here within two days, and somehow they were both brought in by the King siblings. Ugh.
I stare at it like it may open its little paper mouth and tell me to go fuck myself.
“No.” I don’t mean to say it out loud, and my hand immediately smacks over my mouth.
Warren rolls his eyes. “You don’t even know what I’m writing.”
“I know exactly what you’re writing.”
“You do not.”
I lean against the wall. “You’re making a list.”
“Yeah.”
“Then I know what you’re writing.”
His brows furrow as he looks me over. “A list isn’t offensive.”
“It is when it’s about my bakery.”
He looks down at the notebook. “It’s not about your bakery itself; it’s about your production flow.”
I groan. “That sounds worse, Warren.”
“I support the list,” Marley says from her position on the prep table with a ham and cheese croissant in her hand.
I gasp. “I didn’t think you’d be the one to betray me!”
She takes a bite. “This croissant is incredible, but I’m choosing honesty today.”
Oliver leans against the doorway to the alleyway between the bakery and Saints & Sinners, his arms crossed, looking far too pleased for a man who claims to hate being involved. “The list may save us all.”
I whip around. “There is no us,” I say. “This is my bakery. You’re next door and this one,” I gesture to Marley, “just hangs out all day and works in the corner.”
“My apartment gets no sunlight.” she frowns.
“It’s your bakery, but we’re trying to optimize your work.” Warren frowns.
I spin back to him, watching as his pen pauses over the notebook.
The pen.
It’s black. Not one of my sparkly pink pens from the front with the half-chewed cap. A real pen. Sleek. Probably chosen for the ink flow and professional weight.
And his hands look so big holding it I—
No. Absolutely not.
My gaze flicks to Marley just in time to watch her eyes narrow.
I shake my head in an attempt to shake the picture of that same hand gripping my thigh—
Absolutely. Not.
I turn quickly, attempting to find something… anything to get my mind off of it.
But I grab a whisk. A whisk.
Oliver stares at me, confused. “Why do you need a whisk?”
I freeze. “I—No reason.”
Marley crosses her legs. “You look like you’re about to kill my brother with a whisk.”
“I’m not. I’m just a simple woman with tools.”
His eyes drop to the whisk before slowly lifting to mine. “Are you threatening me with a whisk?”
“No. Well. Maybe.”
His mouth almost does the thing. The almost-smile. The one that makes me absolutely desperate to earn the rest of it.
Marley slaps the prep table. “No.”
Warren looks at her, annoyance clear in his blue eyes. “What?”
“No almost smiling at her.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I can’t control what my mouth does.”
Her eyes shut. “Dangerous sentence. I’m gonna ask you to step outside and have a little time out.”
I cover my face with my free hand. “Can everyone please stop making everything significantly worse?”
“No,” Oliver mutters.
I lower my hand and set the whisk down. It’s nine in the morning and we’ve been open for an hour.
The Legacy Latte is still selling. Apparently, my public response to Barrett Whitaker’s column has turned into a neighborhood event.
Customers keep coming in with phones out, taking photos of the chalkboard and ordering brown sugar, cinnamon, and spite with their oat milk.
Dev has declared them “legacy girlies,” which makes Oliver look like he wants to walk directly into traffic.
Lisa is managing the front while Dev mans the register.
Marley has been handling social media until Warren arrived and made her emotions too complicated to caption things.
And Oliver is supposed to be next door overseeing prep for his bar. Instead, he’s choosing to loiter.
“Don’t you have a business?” I ask him.
“Yeah.”
“Get busy.”
“It’s not open yet.”
“Then go emotionally prepare.”
He lifts his hand. “I’m watching this.”
“This”—I gesture around the kitchen—“is not entertainment.”
“It is for me.”
Marley nods. “Me too.”
“I slept with your brother,” I hiss.
“And now he’s trying to optimize your muffin schedule. Life is layered.”
Warren’s pen stops and he looks up, his shoulders drooping.
“My muffin schedule doesn’t need optimizing,” I scoff.
He looks at me.
My eyes narrow. “Do not.”
He says nothing.
I huff. “Okay the silence is worse.”
“It’s restraint.”
“I preferred when you had less of that.”
The room goes still. Marley’s mouth drops open, and Oliver does that thing where he closes his eyes and throws his head back like he’s wishing for a UFO to beam him up.
Warren looks at me.
Apparently, my mouth has decided to walk straight into the inner harbor without notifying the rest of me.
My face goes red.
“I—I meant ab—about the list,” I stutter.
Oliver mutters, “No, you didn’t.”
“I hate you,” I whisper.
“You only say that when I’m right.”
Warren’s gaze hasn’t left my face. I feel the heat of it scorching my skin.
His expression is controlled, as usual, but his eyes darken in a way I know all too well for a woman who has only seen him naked once.
I fold my arms over myself. “You’re not helping me.”
His jaw sets. “Because you don’t need help?”
“Yes.”
“Or because you don’t want mine?”
I hate that he does that. Cuts through the frosting and goes straight to my raw center like a man with no respect for pastry layers.
“I can leave,” he says coolly.
I open my mouth, but Marley’s faster. “No!” she says immediately.
I turn to her. “Excuse me?”
“He’s not going to leave.”
“He absolutely can,” I say.
“He’s in Maryland temporarily,” she says, setting down her croissant like she’s preparing to be reasonable, which is honestly devastating news for all of us. “He came here to help me, and he’s trying to figure out his next move, and whether we like it or not—”
“I vote not,” Oliver mutters.
Marley ignores him. “—he’s a trained master baker.”
Warren’s jaw tightens slightly.
“And you’re drowning,” she says quietly.
I shake my head. “I’m not drowning.”
“You’ve been running this place for the last week on trauma, cold foam, and vibes.”
“They’re three of my strongest resources,” I say as if none of that is a problem. If I keep telling myself that, it’ll be true.
“Your oven is broken.”
“Agatha is injured.”
“Your order system makes Dev cry.”
“Only on the inside!” Dev calls from out front.
Marley points to my register. “Your production notes are written on six different surfaces.”
I lift my chin. “Creative people have creative ways to use surfaces.”
“You wrote ‘more butter?’ on a napkin and taped it to the mixer.”
“It was a valid question I had to answer.”
“I was just in your office and found a new latte recipe next to three invoices on top of a sketch of a dragon holding a cupcake.”
“It has branding potential.”
Her face softens. “I’m not saying you can’t do this yourself. You’re doing it. And you’ve done it well for a long time. You built this place. It’s yours. No one is taking that from you.”
My chest squeezes.
“But helping doesn’t mean taking.”
I look away, fighting the urge to argue that the Kings must have the exact same brain considering I heard the same thing from him.
Oliver clears his throat.
I glare. “What?”
“I agree with Marley.”
“Of course you do. Today is betrayal day.”
Oliver shrugs. “Every day is betrayal day when you have friends with opinions.”
“I hate opinions.”
“You have fourteen before breakfast,” Marley states.
“Mine are charming.”
“They are loud,” Oliver groans.
Warren says, “Her flavors are excellent.”
Everyone goes quiet.
“What?” I ask.
He looks down at his notebook, then back up. “Your flavors are excellent.”
Not cute or promising. Not charming in the way Barrett Whitaker used charm like a pat on the head before sliding the knife between my ribs.
Excellent. Like it’s a measurable fact.
I swallow. “Oh.”
From the corner of my eye, I watch Oliver look at the ceiling as if pretending not to notice me absorb praise like a neglected houseplant.
Warren continues, since he apparently doesn’t understand that the compliment needs three business days to process.
“Your customer relationships are strong. The front-of-house atmosphere is warm, and your specials are distinctive. The visual branding is memorable, and your ideas are…” he pauses, his gaze flickering to the chalkboard where the Legacy Latte still sits in all its spiteful glory. “Endless,” he finishes.
I blink.
“Is that good or bad?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s both. But your production schedule is a crime against time management.”
I gasp.
Warren looks genuinely confused by my reaction.
“It is,” he says. “It’s written in three marker colors, two pencils, and what appears to be lipstick.”
“That was one time.”
“It was this morning.”
“I couldn’t find a pen.”
Warren lifts his pen.
“Do not offer me your sexy efficiency pen.”
Oliver turns to the wall Blair Witch-style while Marley chokes.
Warren’s gaze zeroes in on me.
Oh no. No. No, no, no.
“Professional efficiency pen,” I correct.
Oliver’s head shakes. “Too late, my guy.”
“Sexy efficiency pen,” Marley whispers.
I whisper, “Do not repeat it.”
“I’m going to be repeating that for the rest of our lives,” she says.
Warren’s mouth does that almost-smile again.
“I need you two to leave.”
Marley and Oliver both look at me, offended.
“Fine.” Oliver heads for the door. “I’ll go pretend to work in my own building. But I’m leaving the door open, because whatever this is will either need supervision or a witness.”
“There is no this.”