Page 61 of A Taste of Vanilla

“Alcohol.”

Oliver looks pleased with this development, which immediately makes me want to commit a small crime.

I turn to him. “Do not look smug.”

“I prefer alive friends.”

“I am alive.”

“You’re flirtatiously alive, and that’s worse.”

The man’s gaze stays on me. “I didn’t ask to offend you.”

“Well, you’re extremely gifted by accident.”

He smiles. A real one this time, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came.

He has one dimple. One.

It’s a shallow dent near the right side of his mouth, but it’s gone before I can properly resent it.

“I asked,” he says, “because if you’re drunk, I won’t flirt with you.”

The bar goes silent. Or maybe my pulse is just loud enough to cancel everything else out.

Oliver freezes.

The mozzarella stick stretches a long string of cheese back to the basket like even dairy is trying to leave the scene of the crime.

The man looks calm.

It’s not surprising. Men who say things like that soconfidently probably file their taxes early and know exactly where their tire pressure gauge is.

“I’m not drunk,” I say.

Oliver makes a sound.

I glare at him. “I’m not.”

“You opened the evening by asking if Suzy Homemaker had ever been cheated on.”

“It was philosophical.”

“You called your drink a bachelorette party with abandonment issues.”

“It was accurate.”

“You announced a healing slutty era.”

I whisper this time. “That wasprivate.”

The man’s mouth twitches.

I face him. “I am not drunk. I had two drinks over three hours, an irresponsible amount of fried food, and enough water to drown an orphan in a Dickens novel. I am emotionally compromised, yes. Am I slightly reckless?” I pause. “Clearly. But I am not drunk.”

He listens to every word, and then nods. “Good.”

I lift my chin. “Good?”