Page 139 of A Taste of Vanilla

“But it was her choice?”

I nod.

Marley exhales. “I’m mad,” she says simply, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

“I know.”

“At both of you.”

“I know.”

“But mostly at the universe because the comedic timing is absurd.”

I look at her, and when she meets my eyes, her mouth twitches.

I can feel mine start.

“Don’t,” she says, seeing it.

I put my hands up in defense. “I didn’t.”

“You almost did, and that’s bad enough.”

Halston’s voice rises from across the bar. “Warren.”

My name cuts through the room, and I can feel my skin prickle with something that feels an awful lot like longing.

I lift my gaze. She stands behind a spread of plates, cups, napkins, and open bakery boxes. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair loose from the ribbon. There’s a streak of something dark on her wrist. Chocolate, probably. From what, I’m not sure.

But most importantly, she’s smiling at me.

“You’re the trained one. Come taste this.”

Marley shoots me a look. “Absolutely not.”

I ignore her.

The Vipers players shift to make room for me, and Halston holds out a small plate with half a cookie on it. Dark chocolate with pretzel pieces and coarse salt on top. I take a bite, chewing for a moment. Brown butter.

“Late-night bar cookie,” she says. “I want it salty enough for beer but sweet enough that people come next door for more.”

The texture is good, and the edges are crisp. The center is soft, and the pretzel adds a bit of structure.

“Well?” she asks, watching as I examine the crumb.

I swallow. “It works.”

Her eyes narrow. “That’s not enough feedback. You’re supposed to be my feedback guy.”

“You need a little more bitterness.”

“A bitter man would say that.”

I ignore her.

“I think you need just a little bit of espresso added.”

She stares.