Page 128 of A Taste of Vanilla

“Marley isn’t here.”

My heart stops.

For one reckless second, the kitchen feels like the apartment, images from the night flashing in my head.

The register chimes out front, saving us.

Dev calls, “Halston, someone wants to know if the Legacy Latte is available in decaf. It kind of feels philosophically wrong, doesn’t it?”

I shout back, “Tell them it requires caffeine!”

“Heard!” he replies.

Warren looks toward the doorway. “You’re good with them.”

“Customers?”

“Yeah.”

“I like people,” I say with a shrug.

“I noticed.”

“You keep saying these things like it’s a diagnosis. I’m an extrovert. We’re allowed to exist.”

He goes quiet as I grab the butter and plop it into the mixing bowl with white and brown sugar.

I can feel him watching my hands, and there’s something about a man like this watching me work that feels almost more intimate than him studying my naked body.

But I’m proud of these hands. They’re what built this place, and Warren’s gaze follows them like he respects that.

“You cream too fast,” he murmurs.

The spell breaks. He’s annoying me, so I turn the mixer up higher out of spite.

He reaches out and turns it back down.

I gasp, watching him pick up his notebook.

“Do not write that down!”

“I’m writing down your mixer speed.” His lips thin.

My eyes narrow. “Evidence against me.”

“Adjustments. Your dough needs consistency.”

And I laugh.

I’m not sure if it’s because I actually find him funny or if it’s because my irritation has nowhere else to go, but he watches me, his expression warming.

Feeling uncomfortable with the heat in the room, I turn back to the mixer. “Stop looking at me so I can focus,” I mumble.

He sighs, and I can hear the smile in it. “I’m looking at the dough, Halston.”

My hand slips on the bag of sugar as I lift it, sending granules scattering across the table. I reach for a cloth, only to find my fingers brushing Warren’s as he does the same.

The contact is small, but it’s our first contact since the other night. The first time I’ve felt his skin on mine. It feels like a zap to my heart, the memories—thesounds—rushing back in.