Page 166 of A Taste of Vanilla

“I hate it.”

“I know.”

I laugh. “You’re really bad at normal comforting.”

He shrugs.

“But you’re—” I wipe under my eyes with the heel of my hand and look around the office at the water, heating pad, gummy worms, and medicine. He adjusted my schedule. And I’m here, not suffering in Bitter Bloom. “You’re good at making room.”

His jaw shifts.

“Good,” he says simply.

For a second, neither of us speaks. The office hums softly with the old building. Through the wall and across the alley, I can hear muffled movement from the bakery.

The world is still moving.

Warren steps toward the door. “I’ll go check on things.”

“Warren.”

He stops, but I don’t know what I mean to say until he looks at me.

“Thank you.”

He nods once. “You’re welcome.”

“And…”

His gaze holds mine.

My fingers tighten around the heating pad. “If I ask you to stay for a minute later, after you deal with the dough, will you?”

His expression softens, and his shoulders loosen. “Of course.”

There’s no hesitation.

“Okay,” I whisper.

“I’ll be back.”

“I know.”

Warren leaves the door cracked just enough for air and sound, but not enough for anyone to see in. Not that there’s anyone here.

I sit in the dim room with my heating pad pressed to my body. I’m still in pain, but for the first time in what feels like years, I’m taking up space without forcing myself to apologize.

Warren doesn’t make me smaller or force me to do anything I don’t want to do. I’m not upstairs, where I can’t hear what’s going on. I’m here, just feet from my bakery, and in control.

I’m never smaller with him because he makes the room bigger.

fourteen

. . .

A Mistake You Can Schedule Your Way Out Of

WARREN