Page 81 of A Taste of Vanilla

I think about lying.

I am very good at white lies. Little decorative lies. It comes with owning a business that deals with the public because, quite frankly, the public is stupid. White lies are necessary.

Instead, I say, “I don’t know.”

His expression does not change, but his attention sharpens.

“I don’t regret it,” I add quickly.

“Okay.”

“I just don’t know what I am right now.”

“That makes sense.”

I laugh. “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“No advice?”

“No.”

He stands and retrieves his shirt from the floor.

“Leaving?” I ask before I can stop myself.

The question sounds needier than I want it to.

He looks around before his eyes settle back on me. “Do you want me to?”

“No.” The answer is immediate.

“Then no.”

Relief moves through me. Annoying relief.

I watch him pull his briefs back on but not his shirt. He comes back to the mattress and lies beside me carefully, like a man trying not to take up too much space.

I roll onto my side to face him. I resist the urge to ask him about all of his tattoos.

Instead, I say, “Are you always this controlled?”

His eyes move to mine. “No.”

My stomach dips. “No?”

His gaze drops to my mouth. “Not always.”

“Good to know.”

His hands move to my hair, brushing the loose bow. “This is coming out,” he says softly.

“It fought bravely.”

He pulls the ribbon free and sets it on the floor next to the mattress before sliding his fingers into my hair and kissing me.

Slower this time. Not quick to go anywhere.