Page 204 of A Taste of Vanilla
“There was a job,” he says. “Small bakery. Old owners serious about bread. Exactly the kind of place I wanted. Not flashy or corporate. No nonsense. They needed someone who could handle production and train staff. I did a trial run for three days.”
“And you were great.”
“I was,” he says confidently this time. “Very good.”
I smile a little. “Sexy confidence. I love that.”
He almost smiles, but it fades.
“They offered me the job.”
My fingers still. “But?”
“I wore short sleeves the last day.”
Everything goes quiet, and his gaze drops to his forearms.
The ink is beautiful. Flowers tucked through black lines. Script. A body that looks like it’s been turned into a map of every place he loved and survived.
“What happened?”
“The wife saw first. Then the husband.” His jaw flexes. “They were polite.”
The word polite feels like a slap. Because of course they were.
“They were in a more conservative area. Said it wasn’t the image they wanted in the front of house. The customers would have certain expectations. That visible tattoos did not reflect the tradition of the bakery.”
“They judged you?”
“Yeah.”
Fury floods through me as my face turns red, and Warren looks at me, surprised.
Warren King, who notices everything, apparently has no idea what to do when someone gets angry on his behalf.
He can learn.
“They were the problem,” I say.
He shrugs. “It was their business.”
“And they were allowed to be wrong in it.”
His eyes narrow. “Halston.”
“No.” I point to his chest. “No scary bread voice. I am furious.”
“I can see that.”
“I hope so.”
“It was years ago.”
“I can be retroactively violent.”
He smiles.
I touch the next tattoo. “And this one?” A snake that curves around the other side of his torso.
