Page 122 of A Taste of Vanilla

“I preferred when you had less of that.”

The room goes still. Marley’s mouth drops open, and Oliver does that thing where he closes his eyes and throws his head back like he’s wishing for a UFO to beam him up.

Warren looks at me.

Apparently, my mouth has decided to walk straight into the inner harbor without notifying the rest of me.

My face goes red.

“I—I meant ab—about the list,” I stutter.

Oliver mutters, “No, you didn’t.”

“I hate you,” I whisper.

“You only say that when I’m right.”

Warren’s gaze hasn’t left my face. I feel the heat of it scorching my skin.

His expression is controlled, as usual, but his eyes darken in a way I know all too well for a woman who has only seen him naked once.

I fold my arms over myself. “You’re not helping me.”

His jaw sets. “Because you don’t need help?”

“Yes.”

“Or because you don’t want mine?”

I hate that he does that. Cuts through the frosting and goes straight to my raw center like a man with no respect for pastry layers.

“I can leave,” he says coolly.

I open my mouth, but Marley’s faster. “No!” she says immediately.

I turn to her. “Excuse me?”

“He’s not going to leave.”

“He absolutely can,” I say.

“He’s in Maryland temporarily,” she says, setting down her croissant like she’s preparing to be reasonable, which is honestly devastating news for all of us. “He came here to help me, and he’s trying to figure out his next move, and whether we like it or not?—”

“I vote not,” Oliver mutters.

Marley ignores him. “—he’s a trained master baker.”

Warren’s jaw tightens slightly.

“And you’re drowning,” she says quietly.

I shake my head. “I’m not drowning.”

“You’ve been running this place for the last week on trauma, cold foam, and vibes.”

“They’re three of my strongest resources,” I say as if none of that is a problem. If I keep telling myself that, it’ll be true.

“Your oven is broken.”