Page 125 of A Taste of Vanilla

Marley stands and brushes crumbs off her sweatshirt. “I have to take a call.”

I panic, immediately taking my words back. I grab her wrist. “Don’t go,” I whisper.

She looks at my hand, and then back to me. “I’m not leaving the building.”

“But you’re leaving the room.”

“The room is doing something weird to my nervous system.” She lowers her voice. “Look. I love you. I trust you. I trust Warren, mostly. But I cannot watch my brother quietly make lists in your kitchen while both of you awkwardly and badly pretend that you’re not thinking about sex.”

Warren groans from behind me.

“I hate you,” I whisper.

She kisses my cheek. “I know.”

She grabs her phone and leaves.

The kitchen is quiet. Not silent. Bitter Bloom is never silent during business hours. Out front, Dev takes orders, Lisa boxes pastries and makes another Legacy Latte, the espresso machine hisses, customers laugh, and the bell over the door seems to never stop jingling as people come and go.

But here, in the kitchen, everything is too quiet.

Just Warren.

Just me.

The notebook.

And the memory of the other night.

I cross my arms. “You can leave too.”

He nods. “I can.”

“But you’re not going to.”

He looks at me.

I roll my eyes. “Fine. You may observe.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t sound pleased.”

“I am.”

I try not to smile as I grab a mixing bowl. “Don’t make it hard to be mad at you.”

I look over my shoulder. He stands near the prep table, his sleeves down over his giant arms, his hair pulled tight and his expression unreadable as he watches me.

Every single time I see him like this, it makes me want to see the wrecked man above me again.

The sound he made when I pulled his hair…

And now, he’s standing in my kitchen writing lists about production flow.

It’s obscene. Domestic and maybe even a little dangerous. For my blood pressure, anyway.

“Why are you in Maryland?” I ask before I can stop it.