"Just another day in the office," I had whispered to the closed shutters.
Twelve hours later, "the office" smelled intensely of yeast and panicked sweat.
"Ren, stop eating the inventory!" Tybalt slapped my hand away from a tray of freshly glazed cinnamon rolls. He was wearing his apron like a suit of armor, his face dusted with flour war paint. "Those are for the paying customers. We have a line. A literal line! Outside the door!"
"I'm quality control," I mumbled, licking sticky sugar off my thumb. "And I need the calories. We have a heist tonight."
"We have a lunch rush now," Tybalt countered, shoving a basket of baguettes into my arms. "Table 4 needs bread. And smile. You look like you're plotting a murder."
"I am plotting a burglary," I corrected, but I took the basket.
