Chapter 9 #3
“Fine.”
“You both said that like you’re accepting parking tickets.”
“It’s a rule,” I mutter.
“It’s a rule involving my best friend and my brother’s penis.”
“Marley!”
“I will say penis as many times as necessary until everyone understands the gravity of the situation.”
The three of us look at one another before their eyes settle on me, as if waiting for verbal confirmation. “Fine,” I say. “Temporary help. Production only, no personal commentary.”
Warren nods. “Agreed.”
“No lists with”—my gaze flicks to his notebook—“judgmental titles.”
His jaw sets, his eyes narrowing slightly. He fidgets.
I lunge.
Marley gasps. “You added titles?”
Warren holds the notebook in the air.
“Warren, give me the notebook,” I hiss.
“Absolutely not.”
“Warren.”
“You said no judgmental titles. These are from before you made the rule.”
Marley gasps. “That means there are judgmental titles.”
She’s there in an instant, one hand reaching out to tickle his armpit, the other reaching up to grab the notebook as he goes to defend his honor.
When it’s safely in her hands, she darts behind me, flipping the book open.
Her eyes widen, and she bursts out laughing.
“What?” I ask.
“Bitter Bloom Initial Observations,” she reads out loud. “Strengths: flavors, customer loyalty, visual identity, staff, high concept velocity.”
I blink. “High concept velocity?”
“You have… a lot of ideas,” Warren says as he shifts uncomfortably.
“That sounds nice.”
“It is.”
Marley’s mouth twitches. “Weaknesses: inconsistent scheduling, inefficient storage, equipment neglect, overreliance on owner’s energy, emotional specials may create demand spikes the bakery cannot meet.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Marley holds up her hand.
She turns the page, her eyes going wide.
“Marley,” Warren mutters.
“Urgent concerns: oven calibration, lock replacement, Halston does not eat during rush,” she reads, pure delight in her voice.
The room goes quiet, and I feel myself stand taller, something in my chest squeezing. When Marley looks back up at me, her eyes are soft.
Warren refuses to look at me.
I want to hate him. On some level, I think I do. But not because he thinks I have weaknesses, or because he hates my chaos. It’s because while all of those things are true, he also seems to actually care. And I can’t have that.
“That’s not a production issue,” I tell him quietly.
His gaze returns to mine. “It affects production, though.”
My throat burns.
“That’s manipulative.”
“It’s factual.”
“Facts can be manipulative.”
He considers this before nodding.
Marley closes the notebook gently, placing it on the table while I turn the mixer off. It’s been on for a while, but the butter and sugar are perfectly fluffy, just the way they should be. The problem many people have is not letting it mix long enough.
I grab the eggs, adding them one at a time before the vanilla.
It’s chemistry. That’s it. Nothing more.
But Warren isn’t only sex. Not anymore.
It was one night, one mistake. One very large, tattooed mistake with practical coffee and a hidden piercing that I now have to be okay with watching me as I make fucking cookies.
A man who seems to see everything I miss and yet still respects me and gives me my flowers.
I’m hit with the terrifying realization that this man may fit into my bakery without making it smaller. Maybe.
When it’s all mixed together, I add the flour, mixing just until combined. I add the chocolate and do the same.
I look up. “What?”
His eyes are intense as he watches my every move. “Nothing.”
“You always have something.”
“Not always,” he says as he shakes his head.
“Warren.”
Marley groans.
“Everyone out,” I say, pointing to the door.
“No,” Marley says.
My eyes widen, and she takes the hint, leaving the room with only a mumble about flirting.
Warren reaches for my cookie scoop, and I stare at him.
He pauses before I pick up my other scoop.
While he scoops dough and levels it off on the side of the bowl, creating perfect, exact balls of cookie dough, mine are just… fine. Almost identical.
We work in silence for a few minutes, until I’ve had enough.
I nudge one of his balls slightly out of line, watching his lips curve into a frown. He stares at it for a few seconds before moving it back.
I do it again.
His jaw tightens, and I smile as he looks at me.
“Are you trying to irritate me?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“High concept velocity.”
His mouth twitches into what I can almost call a real smile. Bigger than before, but still not quite there.
There’s movement from the back door, and I watch as Oliver walks by, rolling his eyes when he sees us. “This is going to be a disaster,” he says just loud enough for us to hear.
My cheeks warm, and I look down at my sheet pan. At Warren’s perfect rows of cookie dough and my chaotic ones. At the dough I made and he praised.
“Probably,” I say, even though Oliver is out of earshot.
Warren’s shoulder brushes mine, and I can tell it’s not by accident.
He doesn’t look at me when he says, “The cookies will be great.”
I smile before I can stop myself. “They always are.”