Page 59 of A Taste of Vanilla

His gaze moves over my face. Not in the way men look when they think they are being subtle and are, in fact, being extremely obvious. This is worse.

He looks like he’s taking in every single little thing. From the crooked pink bow in my hair to the tear tracks in my makeup.

His eyes land on mine. “When I want coffee,” he says.

I blink.

Oliver makes a tiny sound that might be a laugh if he hadn’t murdered joy years ago.

“That was a very literal answer.”

“It was a literal question.”

“Was it?”

I study him.

He stares back at me.

Most men I know perform when women talk to them in bars. They lean in, smirk, and lower their voices. They try to become whatever version of themselves they think will get invited back home.

This man doesn’t do any of it. He sits there with his black coffee and his unreadable face like flirting is an inconvenience, but he might tolerate it if the paperwork is correct.

“What if you wanted whiskey?” I ask.

“Then I’d order whiskey.”

Oliver mutters, “Revolutionary.”

The stranger’s mouth shifts, and I feel almost victorious.

“Do you have a name?” I ask.

Oliver sets a glass down harder than necessary, but I ignore him.

The man looks at me for a long second. “Yes.”

I wait. He drinks his coffee.

I laugh before I can stop myself. “Are you always this difficult?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Sometimes I’m more difficult.”

I stick out my hand. “I’m Elizabeth,” I say with a sly smile, giving him my middle name.

Oliver rolls his eyes and glares at the bar.

The man looks at my hand before taking it. His hand swallows mine, but it’s warm, rough, and steady.

I willnotromanticize a handshake.

I’ve hit rock bottom in several ways this week, and I refuse to add that one to the list.

“Nice to meet you, Elizabeth.”