Chapter 13
thirteen
. . .
Pain, Gummy Worms, and the Hot Schedule Man
HALSTON
Pain arrives like an uninvited critic.
It’s polite at first, because apparently even my uterus has been reading Barrett Whitaker and decided subtle cruelty is the theme of the week.
A tightness low in my pelvis starts as I’m measuring flour, which only turns into a dull pull across my lower back when I bend for the sheet pans.
A warning pulse under my ribs flares as I lift the butter block onto the prep table and attempt to pretend that my entire system is not attempting a hostile takeover.
I try to ignore it.
It feels like a skill. Some women learn piano. Some learn French. Some learn how to fold fitted sheets in a way that doesn’t look like they’ve given up on life.
I learn how to stand upright while my body quietly revolts.
“Absolutely not,” I whisper at my abdomen.
It doesn’t respect my wishes.
Outside of the prep room, Bitter Bloom is still dark except for the warm glow of the pastry case lights Dev forgot to turn off last night. The front windows hold a pale gray version of morning. It’s far too early for customers. Most of the city isn’t awake.
And it’s definitely too early for my body to be on this bullshit.
I grip the edge of the worktable and breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. I’m annoyed immediately.
I’m fine. Fine enough.
I have croissant dough to turn, scone dough to cut, tart shells to blind bake, cookie dough to scoop, pastry cream to mix, and a fresh batch of the Legacy Latte syrup to make. There are about one thousand reasons not to sit down on the flour-dusted floor and bargain with God.
A cramp twists hard enough to make my vision blur, and the bench scraper slips out of my hand. It clatters loudly on the floor, and I freeze with one hand braced on the table and the other pressed against my lower stomach. “Nope,” I whisper.
The pain tightens. It’s sharp, low, deep, and familiar in the worst way, like a fist closing around organs that have never once paid rent.
I breathe through it. Count to five, and then ten. Then I lose count because counting becomes extremely difficult when you can’t think straight.
I pick up the bench scraper, rinse it, dry it, and set it back on the table like nothing happened.
Nothing happened. I am fine.
I hear the back door open and throw a curse at the ceiling.
Warren steps into the kitchen with a paper cup and a folded newspaper under his arm. He’s wearing the expression of a man who has never once been late to anything in his entire life.
My mind runs through a million names for him instead of focusing on the pain I’m in.
A very temporary problem, I remind myself. A master baker who is far too skilled for my little bakery. My best friend’s brother and former anonymous catastrophic decision. A production schedule terrorist.
He’s two steps inside the kitchen, and his eyes move over me once.
It’s all it takes.
“Pain?” he asks.
Not, “Are you okay?” Not “What’s wrong?” Not “You look terrible,” which would be true but rude.
Just, “Pain?”
I turn back to the dough. “Good morning to you too.”
“Halston.”
“I’m not accepting questions before caffeine.”
He disappears, and I hear the clicking of the coffee machine and the sound of the steam wand.
He comes back with a latte and sets it in front of me.
I pause.
“What is it?”
“Banana-vanilla latte. Oat milk with an extra shot. Less sweet than you make it, though.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why less sweet?”
“Because you drink the first third far too fast and then complain for hours that your teeth feel sticky.”
I stare at him.
He’s been here for just over a week, and he’s observed so much. My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with my endometriosis.
“I don’t complain.”
“You do.”
He’s quiet as I reach for the cup, because refusing the coffee on principle would make me the weaker party. The first sip is warm and familiar and almost right. Not as sweet as I would make it, but annoyingly good.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
He nods once, and then looks at my hand still pressed against my stomach.
I move it immediately.
“Flare?” he asks.
My whole body goes stiff.
It’s one thing for Marley to know. Marley has held my hair back during nausea and once threatened to fight my uterus in “a neutral location.” Oliver knows in the vague, practical way Oliver knows things—pain means fries or toast and silence, depending on the specific look on my face.
It’s another for Warren to stand in my kitchen and say flare like the word is allowed in his mouth.
“Did Marley tell you?” A shot of anger flashes through me.
He says nothing.
His brow lowers slightly, and I recognize the judgment.
“You’re sweating,” he says.
“Agatha is hot.”
“She’s not on yet.”
I grip the edge of the table harder. “I said I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m coping.”
“Badly.”
I glare at him, and he just looks back at me, unmoved and infuriating and maybe a little bit beautiful.
“I can’t do this today,” I say.
“What?”
I gesture to the kitchen. “This. The pain. I can’t sit down. I can’t be delicate while my bakery gets publicly dissected by a,” I choke, “a man.”
Warren’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes.
“I can’t afford to look weak,” I say before I can stop myself.
The words fall between us, ugly and honest.
He’s quiet for a moment, and I prepare myself for the soft reassurance that always makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Instead, he sets his own coffee down on the counter.
“Pain isn’t weakness,” he says.
I laugh once. “Great. Put that on a mug.”
“It’s a constraint.”
I blink. “What?”
“Pain,” he says. “It’s not a weakness. It’s a constraint.”
I stare at him.
He steps closer. “When an oven runs hot on one side, you adjust it. When dough proofs too fast, you change the timing. When staff capacity is low, you reduce output or simplify production. A constraint is not a moral failure; it’s information.”
“I’m not dough.”
“My point is, you need to modify your output, Halston. It is not a failure.”
The cramp hits again, sharper than the last. My breath catches before I can hide it, and because I am a woman with survival instincts, I immediately reach for the rolling pin like the problem is a lack of laminated pastry.
But the second I bend, pain spears through me, low and hot. My hand slips on the table, and the rolling pin flies away.
Warren moves, then stops. He doesn’t touch me.
“Can I help you?” he asks quietly.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“No,” I say, but my voice feels too tight.
He nods once. “Okay.”
I stay braced over the table until the worst of it eases, breathing carefully through my nose. When I straighten, Warren is still exactly where he was, watching me.
“I have to finish prep,” I say.
“Okay.”
“And before you say I don’t—”
“You do.”
I pause.
He looks at the production sheet taped to the shelf. I’m behind from yesterday, but he doesn’t look fazed.
“You have a wholesale pickup at eight,” he says. “The front case needs minimum stock by seven-thirty. Legacy syrup is low, tart shells don’t need to be done today, and scones can be reduced by half. Croissants are already in progress, so we’ll prioritize them.”
I stare at him.
He picks up his notebook and looks through it. “I swear to God, Warren, if you start making a list of my organs, I’m calling Marley.”
“I’m making a revised production schedule.”
“No.”
He pauses. “May I make one?”
I open my mouth, then close it. He waits.
“I don’t need you to take over,” I say.
“I know.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“You’re here temporarily.”
I say it because I need the reminder, but it looks like it hits him in the chest.
Temporary help. Temporary brother-in-town. Temporary man in my kitchen with large hands and too many manners.
“Yes,” he says after a second. “I am.”
He’s calm, and it makes my heart squeeze.
I wrap both arms around my middle. “Fine. You may make a suggested revised production schedule.”
“Suggested,” he repeats.
“Yes. Underline it.”
He writes something down.
My eyes narrow. “Did you actually underline it?”
He shows it to me for proof.
I lean against the table, bent forward over my knees, while he works. He doesn’t rush, and he breaks my morning into pieces and makes notes.
He doesn’t remove me.
Warren: laminate turn two.
Halston: syrup flavor check.
Lisa: case restock.
Dev: front setup, signage, mobile order pause if needed.
Reduce scones by half.
Add cookie dough to afternoon to-do list.
In the corner, he writes: ask before doing anything drastic.
He tears the page from the notebook and slides it to me. “Suggested.”
I shake my head. “This is too organized.”
He stares at me.
“It’s making me itchy.”
“I assumed.”
“I’m on there.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“You said you wanted to keep working. We’re adjusting for you.”
My face does something. I’m not sure what, but it’s something fragile and gentle and all too embarrassing. I look down before he can see it.
“This is acceptable,” I say finally.
“Acceptable?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
Another wave of pain twists, lower and deeper within me. I grip the paper hard enough to wrinkle it, and Warren’s eyes move to my hand.
“Do you have a heating pad?” he asks.
“It’s upstairs,” I grunt.
“Where?”
“Blue bin by the stairs.”
“May I get it?”
My first thought is to say no. Upstairs is my space. My unfinished, vulnerable space. He’s already seen too much of me there. All of me.
But I need my heating pad.
“Second blue bin. Not the first,” I say with a nod.
He leaves without another word, grabbing my keys from the hook where I keep them.
I sit in silence and try not to cry.
I fail.
Not horribly. But one tear slips out and lands on the paper in my lap.
By the time Warren returns, I’ve moved the croissant dough into the center of the prep table and convinced myself to do the next turn. He stops in the doorway, the heating pad in hand, an ibuprofen bottle, and a small packet of gummy worms.
I stare. “What is that?”
“Second bin.”
“No. The gummy worms.”
“They were on top.”
“Those are emergency gummy worms.”
“I assumed.”
“You assumed what?”
“That this is an emergency.”