Page 214 of A Taste of Vanilla

“Because you asked,” he says. Then, after a second, “And because I wanted to.”

I tug lightly on his hand. “Come here.”

His eyes search mine. “Pain?”

“Lower. Better. I just…” My voice goes small. “I want you closer.”

The softness that moves through his expression almost ruins me.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He moves slowly, giving me time to change my mind eventhough I don’t. He stretches out on the mattress beside me, on top of the blanket at first, careful not to jostle me.

“Where can I touch you?”

My eyes begin to burn again.

“Here,” I say, guiding his hand to my upper back. “Just not my stomach yet.”

“Okay.”

His palm settles between my shoulder blades.

We lie there in the dim apartment, his tattoos on full display in the moonlight, my difficult body taking up space. We don’t say the falling part. Not yet.

But I feel the drop all the same.

eighteen

. . .

Stable Dynamic, Do Not Compliment

WARREN

Oliver knows.

Not everything. Not the exact details of what happened. But enough.

It didn’t take long to realize that Oliver is the type of man who became observant because he hates asking questions, but still insists on keeping people alive. He notices most things people miss.

He notices me coming downstairs from Halston’s apartment before sunrise and moving through her kitchen without turning on the lights. He notices that I make two cups of coffee. One for me and one for Halston before she comes down.

The man doesn’t sleep. He eats, sleeps, and breathes his business, coming in early during the week to do the books and inventory and leaving late, depending on how busy the bar is.

I should close the back door, but there’s a large part of me that wants Oliver to like me. To trust me.

He peeks in as he grabs a box from the alley, and his eyes zero in on the glass of water I place beside her coffee. Then, the small plate of toast.

Last night, Halston fell asleep with her hand in mine, and I watched her for hours through heavy eyelids. The rise and fall of her chest and the way her eyes flutter when she’s dreaming. The spray of freckles across her cheekbones.

Oliver doesn’t know all of that.

But when Halston appears at the bottom of the stairs ten minutes after me, barefoot and in an oversized t-shirt, I think he knows enough.

She takes the coffee between her hands and sips.