Page 251 of A Taste of Vanilla

“Unless I ask, you won’t call about my business.”

I bite my cheek.

“Understood.”

She looks down at my notebook. “Please leave that.”

I go still for a moment before forcing myself to move. With one finger, I push it further toward her.

She looks at it for a long moment before meeting my eyes again. But when she does, I can see the words I’ve been terrified of on the tip of her tongue.

“I need you to leave,” she whispers.

My chest tightens, but I nod. “Okay,” I say softly, moving toward the back to get the keys to my rental.

No argument. No explanation. No insisting that I stay and fix it. No “Let me make it better.”There is no fixing this right now. There’s only making it worse.

My footsteps toward the side door echo in my ears, each step heavy and loud.

When I pass Oliver in the alley, he doesn’t move. His face is unreadable.

Almost sad.

My heart leaps when Halston calls my name, and I turn around.

She stands in the kitchen now, shoulders slumped as she looks at her feet. Her face is pale, her eyes red, and she looks like a woman who spent weeks learning to trust a man only for that trust to crumple around her in an instant.

Because she did.

“You were different,” she says with a sigh. “I really wanted this to work. I want you to know that.”

The words feel like a bullet.

When she looks away, I turn and head out.

twenty-three

. . .

Love Is Not a Crisis Management Plan

HALSTON

I makeit twelve hours before I run.

Well, that’s technically untrue.

Technically, I make it through the rest of the afternoon and through the emergency evidence sorting at the corner table with Marley and Oliver.

I make it through the day.

I make it through the night.

I make it through the next morning and through my opening shift.

I make it until Dev comes in.

By ten, the rain starts. It’s not a polite drizzle. Not a cute, romantic mist. Not the kind of weather that makes people say they love the smell of wet pavement. The rain comes down hard and sideways against the front windows. It blurs my view of the businesses across the street and makes my whole building feel smaller, as if the world has decided to press its palms against the glass and watch me attempt to breathe.