A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,15

Two, a family issue. Three, something to do with your mum and Cate requiring your extended services.”

“Mostly the second one.”

“Sticky, those family issues. Yours expects Winchester to help?” Storm blue, right into my chocolate brown.

Oh, no. Not now, not this boy. “You ask a lot of questions.”

Orion tosses the gloves and the goggles into the empty bucket. “Sorry.”

* * *

My run ended hours ago. But at half-past eleven, as Spencer—or Orion—would say, my mind is still awake, sprinting to keep up with the new way my life looks.

With a weighty sigh, I reach for the charm I never take off. Pilar wears an identical necklace. Four years ago, Abuela presented them to us when we made one of our Sunday regulars—tamales.

The charm is just the outline of a small dove—a golden replica of the Panadería La Paloma logo. In the dark loneliness, I close my eyes and inhale the memory of Abuela as she fastened the chain around my neck. Her hands were wrinkly-soft, smelling of masa and garlic and fragrant pork filling.

“Un regalito,” she’d said to thirteen-year-old me, and seventeen-year-old Pilar. A little gift. “What you both did last month for Congressman Millan brought such honor to our family and business. Your father has to hire another clerk because we’re getting so busy from the publicity.” Abuela’s smile showed off clean, white teeth.

Pilar nodded. “The biggest dollar month in La Paloma history.”

All because I hadn’t listened to Papi when he’d called, stranded with Mami and Abuela in a New York blizzard. I was supposed to cancel the enormous catering order for Andrés’s father. But I wasn’t about to let that prestigious job slip away, and Pilar had no choice but to follow my reckless ambition. I’d taken over, wrangling employees and working overnight to make a truckload of Cuban appetizers. And I had won, even garnering the attention of reporters. For years, I’d continue to win, securing my spot as future co-owner, mapping my biggest dream.

But this morning I had failed and lost. Abuela had taught me to feed my city, sharing the best of what we know. That wasn’t me in the Owl and Crow kitchen with burned cakes. I rise and go downstairs to feed the inn my best.

An hour later, simmering orange-almond glaze mixes with the scent of warm butter and sugar, filling the inn kitchen. I fill it too, wearing Abuela’s apron over my pajamas.

A quick boil, my little pan of glaze bubbles. I remove the saucepan and swing it around as Cate peeks through the door. “Oh. Hi. I hope I didn’t wake you,” I tell her, wincing.

“Not so much that.” She yawns and cinches her fluffy bathrobe tighter. “I needed a pain tablet and realized I’d left them in the office. Had to make sure no culinary ghosts were haunting our kitchen.”

“Sorry.” Now I’m starting to sound like Orion.

“So what’s on the menu tonight?” She moves toward the oven, peeking into the glass door. My cakes are almost done. “Lila. Polly’s ginger loaves were fine and she’ll think up something else for tomorrow, or I guess for today, now. You made a simple mistake. Nothing you had to stay up to fix.”

“I don’t make mistakes in my bakery kitchen,” I say into the pan of cooling glaze. But the truth is, if I hadn’t stalked Andrés’s Instagram, I wouldn’t have been distracted and forgotten the entire metric system. I hate that Pilar was right. I hate that any part of my screwup was due to a boy.

“I know what you can do,” Cate says. “Much of West Miami does. They don’t call you Estrellita for nothing. But even little stars need to sleep.”

I grab a basting brush.

Cate shakes her head. “You shouldn’t stay up late cooking just to wake early to bake with Polly. That’s not good for you. I’m responsible for keeping you safe and healthy.”

“Yeah, I know. To return me to Miami better than ever,” I mutter. Cate’s concerned face softens my sarcasm. “Promise this is my last midnight kitchen spree.”

“Oh, like you promised to go to see Father Morales, but canceled behind your parents’ backs?”

Of course Mami told her. And she’s right; I canceled my appointment with our priest and they were furious. I get how counseling or therapy can help people. But I will decide whom I talk to, and when. I couldn’t stop Stefanie from boarding a plane to Africa, or rewind Andrés’s goodbye speech or… Abuela. I couldn’t change the hand of God. But I could have