Page 102 of A Taste of Vanilla

I nod, sniffling.

Warren’s voice stays controlled, but annoyed. “You texted me the address and said to meet you at your friend’s bakery. You didn’t send me a photo of her.”

Marley blinks, then looks at her phone. “I did.”

“You didn’t say her name or that she lives above the bar next door.”

“I thought I did.”

I’m not sure why she would.

“You didn’t.”

“I was driving.”

“You were texting while driving?” He eyes her.

“I use voice-to-text.”

“Still bad.”

She glares at him. “Do not safety-parent me while I’m mad at your penis.”

Oliver presses his fist to his mouth and turns away.

I busy myself moving muffins into the case because if I stand still, I’ll either laugh, cry, or walk directly into this massive man’s chest, and only one of those is currently survivable.

Probably the crying.

I load the first tray into the case, moving on autopilot. Work always lets me breathe.

The bakery takes my chaos and gives it tasks.

Behind me, Warren opens his big mouth. “Your oven needs recalibration.”

I turn slowly, hating the fact that I find him hot. “Warren,” I say stiffly.

His gaze fixes on me, and for one second, the bakery disappears.

Marley clears her throat, and his eyes flicker to her before returning to me. “Your oven is uneven.”

“I’m in crisis.”

“The oven can be in crisis too.”

Marley chokes before sitting back. She stares at her brother with the grief of a sister who just discovered her brother may be accidentally charming her best friend.

“Absolutely not,” she says, weaker this time.

“Agreed,” I say.

He looks at me, that almost annoyed, careful expression on his face. He’s like a rock, and I would give anything to get what we had last night back.

But we cannot. Ever again.

“Last night was one night,” I say.

He nods.