Page 199 of A Taste of Vanilla

I’m a weak, weak woman.

A weak woman with poor ribbon budgeting.

“So,” I say, pushing myself onto one elbow. “Am I financially doomed?”

“No.”

“Are you saying that because it’s true or because you don’t want me to fling myself onto the floor?”

“You’re already on the floor.”

“Emotionally, Warren.”

“No,” he says. “You’re not doomed.”

I sit up. “That felt very quick.”

He shrugs. “These numbers aren’t awful. You have a cash flow problem. But not a big one.”

“Rude.”

“Not a talent problem.”

He keeps looking at the screen, which is probably deliberate. I think he’s learning that some compliments land better if he doesn’t make me endure direct eye contact while receiving them.

My throat tightens anyway. “That was smooth,” I say.

“Not really.”

“It was. It was like emotional support disguised as fiscal analysis.”

He sighs. “I was just stating a fact.”

“Which is Warren for giving me a bouquet.”

“I’ve never given anyone a bouquet.”

“That’s the least surprising thing you’ve ever said.”

His eyes move to mine, and for a second, everything disappears.

One second we’re talking about quarterly expenses, and the next I’m remembering him in my bakery last night, hair loose, mouth swollen, and hands all over my body. I remember him cleaning me up after. Sanitizing the counter at least five times, and then helping me upstairs where he washed me up in the shower and kissed me until we fell asleep.

My body certainly remembers.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“About ribbon?”

“Your body.”

His words are soft, and my stomach flips. “I’m fine.”

“Halston,” he says firmly.

“I’m mostly fine.”

“Mostly.”