Page 100 of A Taste of Vanilla

I step back. “No coffee?”

“No eye-contact coffee.”

Warren almost smiles, and I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t you dare smirk.”

Marley watches me. “Oh my god, I think I’m going to be sick.”

I lean against the counter, watching her dry heave. “For what it’s worth, I’m also incredibly distressed.”

“No you’re not,” she coughs. “You look guilty and—” She dry heaves again. “Satisfied.” She can barely get the word out.

I roll my eyes. “That’s a horrible accusation.”

The oven timer beeps, and we all jump. I grab my oven mitts and pull a tray from the oven, the smell of banana filling the room.

For a moment, everyone quiets. Baked goods seem to have that power, even during a sexual crisis involving your best friend’s older brother.

I place the tray on the cooling rack, and when I turn around, I catch Warren staring at them.

I know that look. The look of a baker who judges. I know because I do it too.

His eyes narrow, and I freeze.

“Do not,” I warn.

He looks at me calmly. “What?”

“Critique my muffins while your sister’s right there.”

“I wasn’t going to critique them,” he assures me.

I eye him. “Marley said no looking.”

“At you,” Marley snaps. “He can look at fucking muffins.”

The side of Oliver’s fist hits the wall as he looks at the ceiling. “This is the worst morning I’ve experienced sober.”

Warren steps closer to the cooling rack, stopping a careful distance from me. “They’re slightly pale on the left side. Your heat distribution is uneven.”

I gasp. “My heat distribution is none of your business,” I mutter.

“It affects the bake.”

I want to die.

But beneath all the terrible, and the embarrassment, and the complication, and Marley’s shock, there’s a spark.

Because Warren is currently standing in my little bakery, pointing out my oven’s uneven heat distribution after a night in my bed, and somehow this feels more intimate.

Marley picks up her latte and takes a long drink, sucking on the straw. We all look at her. She places it down gently, the wheels turning in her head.

“I’m about to say several things,” she informs us, leaning back in her chair.

Oliver leans against the counter. “Can I sit?”

She shakes her head. “Absolutely not.”

She points at Warren. “You. Do not sleep with my best friend again. Ever.”