Page 126 of A Taste of Vanilla

“To help Marley,” he says without missing a beat.

“And to figure out your next move?”

He closes his notebook. “I finished a contract in Munich,” he says after a moment. “I didn’t renew.”

“Why not?”

“It wasn’t right.”

“That’s vague,” I mutter.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t continue. Of course he doesn’t. Warren King can ask me whether I want his mouth on me, but heaven forbid he offer up a single fact about himself.

I turn back to the bowl. “So you came here.”

“Marley asked.”

“You always come when Marley asks?”

“Yes.” No hesitation.

“Youdidraise her,” I say.

“She likes to exaggerate,” he mumbles.

I shake my head. “Marley doesn’t exaggerate about the things that hurt her.”

When I turn to him, I find his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that pushes me back a step.

I don’t really know where the words came from, except my love for Marley. I know the way she jokes about old bruises, and the way she mentions Warren with affection sharpened by absence. I saw her all through high school and over video chats when she was away at college.

Warren looks away first. “Noted.”

Grabbing the whisk, I get my mixing bowl ready. “We’re making some chocolate chip cookie dough,” I tell him.

“You already sold out?”

“I almost always run out.”

“Your batch size?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“My mood.”

I feel him step beside me. “Your mood,” he repeats, horror laced in the words.

“Yeah.”

“That’s not a measurement.”

I shrug. “It’s a spiritual measurement.”

“It’s a liability.”