Page 19 of A Taste of Vanilla

“Halston,” his voice is soft again, which I hate more than the anger. “Please. I know this looks bad.”

I chuckle. “It looks accurate to me.”

“It’s complicated.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It is. We’ve been under so much pressure. The wedding, your shop, my work?—”

“My shop?”

He hesitates.

“Oh, please,” I say. “Please tell me how my bakery made your pants fall off. I’d love to hear the mechanics of that.”

Grant looks to where Elise slaps her hand across her mouth before looking back at me, fear in his eyes.

But it’s not fear of losing me. It’s fear of being seen.

He takes a step toward me. “You need to calm down.”

There it is.

The phrase I can hear in my sleep.

“I am calm.”

“You’re not.”

“I promise you, Grant, if I were not calm, you would be wearing that croissant.”

Both of our eyes drop to the pastry box.

For a second, the image almost derails me. Grant Whitaker, future husband, real estate golden boy, son of Baltimore’s most respected food critic, standing in his pretty glass office with almond cream dripping down his perfectly ironed shirt.

The image should have been satisfying.

But I do not waste good pastries on bad men.

I look at Elise. “Did you know we were getting married in October?” We chose it because it wouldn’t be too warm. Grant wanted an outdoor wedding. Somewhere fancy.

Her face crumples. “Yes.”

“Elise,” Grant says, and she flinches at his tone.

I study her. The tremor in her hands. The shame in her eyes. The way she moved behind the desk and kept looking at him as if awaiting instructions.

Some horrible, unwanted part of me understands that Grant has probably made her feel chosen too.

“How long?” I ask again.

“Halston, I don’t think?—”

“How. Long.”

He looks at me. Waits ten seconds. “It doesn’t matter.”

Which means it was long enough to matter.