Page 307 of A Taste of Vanilla

“Worse. Now people think it’s sustainable.”

“It is.”

“Get out.”

“I live next door.”

“Move.”

“We are.”

Warren is in the corner fixing a loose shelf no one asked him to fix. It’ll be better in a week when they move into their new home.

Marley is standing on a chair near the end of the bar, filming the players chanting something around a tray of pastries. She has the gleeful expression of a woman about to ruin my peace online.

“Get down,” I tell her.

“No.”

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I’m capturing culture.”

“Not in my bar.” I scowl.

She points her phone at me. “Say that again, but meaner.”

I pour a whiskey for DeLuca and try to ignore the fact that the bar feels good.

Loud and crowded, but warm and alive.

I built Saints & Sinners to be a place people could come when they needed a drink and didn’t want anyone asking them to explain their life. Somehow, against my wishes, it has become a place people come when they want to piss me off.

It’s Halston’s influence.

Possibly mold. I should really check the vents.

I set DeLuca’s drink in front of him.

“Two twists, too?”

He grins. “You know me so well, Ollie.”

“Call me that again and I’ll make you drink vermouth.”

He laughs, completely unafraid because athletes are another breed.

Before I can tell him this, every conversation near the front door collapses.

Not quiets. Collapses.

I look up.

A woman walks in.

Not pretty. That would be too small a word.

Pretty is for women in sundresses and women in lipstick smiling over brunch.