Page 18 of A Taste of Vanilla

“Halston.”

“You had your hand in your secretary’s hair while standing between her legs, but I’m escalating.”

Elise lets out another cry as Grant’s face flushes.

“This was a mistake,” he says.

“A mistake.”

“Yes.”

I nod. “Did you trip?”

His brows furrow. “What?”

“Did you trip and land there?”

“Don’t do this.”

“Was there a wet floor sign missing?”

“Halston.”

“Because from where I’m standing, Grant, it looks like several decisions happened in a row.”

His nostrils flare.

There was a time when the look on his face would have made me back down. Not because I was afraid of him, but because I hated disappointing people. I hated making rooms uncomfortable and I really hated being the reason someone became closed off.

My mom used to say I came into the world wanting applause and stayed because I liked the lighting. She meant it fondly, I think.

Grant used to call me vivid. At first, I thought he meant I was colorful. Full of life.

Later, I learned he meant exhausting.

Now, standing in his beautiful office with coffee soaking into my boots, I realize he was waiting for me to become the version of myself he knew how to handle.

I was emotional, loud, messy, easy to redirect.

But right now he wants tears because tears can be soothed. He wants a scene because a scene can be condemned.

He wants me to give him proof that I’m too much.

So I give him nothing.

I set the pastry box on the edge of his desk. He watches me warily. “What is that?”

“An apology croissant.”

His face flickers.

“For last night,” I say. “When I hurt your feelings by having opinions about my own business.”

His mouth parts, but no words come out.

I smile. It doesn’t feel like my own.

“Seems unnecessary now,” I muse.