Page 198 of A Taste of Vanilla

“What’s upsetting?” he asks, his blue eyes flickering to mine.

I gesture to the laptop. “Math.”

“The math is neutral.”

“It’s judging me.”

He winces. “The math does say that you spent one hundred and eighty-seven dollars on ribbon last month.”

“That was brand development.”

“It says ribbon.”

“It was necessary.”

He makes a note.

“You’re a hostile accountant, did you know that?” I huff.

He shakes his head as he scrolls through my expenses. “Not an accountant.”

I groan and fall backward on the mattress.

The mattress that’s still on the floor because my life remains transitional. I’ve bought a bed frame three times and cancelled the order twice because the first one had bad reviews, the second looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office, and the third required people to assemble it.

Warren has not commented on my lack of bed frame.

Not once.

Not last night, when he laid down beside me after cleaning my kitchen like sex had been the easy part and staying was the thing that required courage. Not this morning, when I woke up with my cheek on his chest and his hand resting carefully over my hip.Not tonight, when he came upstairs after closing with coffee, my laptop, and the softest possible version of the sentence, “We should look at your cash flow before your next supply order.”

Warren looks at me over the laptop. “You also spent eighty-two dollars on specialty sprinkles.”

I throw an arm over my face. “Those were for morale.”

“Whose?”

“The bakery’s.”

“The building?”

I go with it. “Yes.”

“The building needed sprinkles?”

“Bitter Bloom has been through a lot.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then, “True.”

I lower my arm.

Outside the window, the fire escape sits empty. Sir Nubsworth has not appeared tonight, which means he is either off doing squirrel crimes or has entered a new era of personal growth without telling me.

The apartment smells of vanilla from my hair, coffee from the mugs on the floor, and faintly of Warren because he’s been here a significant number of hours today and my space feels like betraying me by holding onto him.

He has taken off his boots again.

His dark henley is still on, sleeves down, despite the apartment being warm. His hair is tied back, but a few pieces have come loose near his jaw. He keeps pushing them away with the same two fingers he uses to tap numbers into my laptop, and every time he does it, I think about pulling the elastic out entirely.