Page 98 of A Taste of Vanilla

Warren closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them, they’re fixed on the ceiling like he’s making a private appeal to a god who has clearly abandoned us.

Marley turns to him, horrified. “You have a pierced dick?”

“Marley.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s also not a conversation we’re having in public.”

“The bakery is locked. I locked it behind you.”

“We’re not having it.”

Oliver drags his hands down his face. “I need to move.”

“To another bar?” I ask weakly.

“To another plane of existence.”

Marley’s voice raises. “Why are women telling me about your penis before seven in the morning?”

His jaw flexes. “I didn’t volunteer that information.”

“No,” she snaps. “Your body did.”

Oliver turns so fast I know he’s hiding a laugh.

A weak sound leaves me, somewhere between an apology and my soul leaving my body.

Warren’s gaze flicks to me.

Despite everything, despite Marley and Oliver and the word penis echoing in the bakery where I sell muffins to grandmothers, the sight of him looking at me does something awful to my stomach.

Because he remembers too. I can see it.

He remembers everything. His hand at my waist and his loose hair around his face. His voice saying, “Look at me,” and the sound of my moans.

My face warms, and Marley catches it.

“Oh, absolutely not.” She physically steps between us. “No more looking.”

“Marley.”

“No. You lost your looking privileges.”

Warren’s gaze drops to the floor.

Oliver points at him. “Don’t pretend to be respectful now. You left appliance feedback after a one-night stand.”

Warren’s brows furrow. “It was lock feedback.”

“Same genre.”

“It isn’t.”

“Spiritually, it is.”

Marley turns to me. “Did you know he was a baker?”