Page 212 of A Taste of Vanilla

“What do they really mean?” His eyes search mine.

“That you wanted things. That you had a body that belonged to you even if your life didn’t feel like it did. And anyone wholooked at all of this and saw something less than your work,” I say, “was an idiot.”

His eyes are locked on mine, and the room stills around us.

I realize, suddenly, that he’s not used to being defended.

Not truly. Not like this.

Warren defends. Warren manages. Warren fixes things. He is used to being useful.

He’s not used to someone caring enough to defend him.

He’s not used to someoneknowingenough to defend him. Because I guarantee if Marley knew, she would.

And I want to do the impossible. I want to go back in time and stand between this man and everyone who ever made him feel like leaving was safer than wanting.

“I would have hired you,” I whisper.

His face twists. “That’s not the same.”

“No,” I say. “I would have hired you and then made an entire menu around your tattoos out of spite.”

He grins. A real, genuine, wide smile.

Devastating.

“Bad business decision,” he says.

“Excellent branding opportunity.”

“Snake bread?”

“Raven Rolls.”

“No.”

“Broken compass croissants.”

His smile fades into something softer.

He looks at me, and for a moment, everything inside me goes quiet.

“You’re too much,” he says.

And while those words from anyone else would break me, he says them with such affection that they don’t.

Not when his eyes are looking at me like that.

I swallow. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

His hand lifts slowly.

I nod, and he brushes one piece of hair away from my cheek before running his thumb across it.

“What do you need?”