Page 4 of A Taste of Vanilla

Oliver doesn’t look away from me. “No,” he says flatly.

The player groans. “Come on, man. It’s a sports bar.” He rolls his eyes.

Oliver’s eyes narrow, and he finally turns his head, murder in his posture. “This is a bar that sports people keep entering against my wishes.”

His teammates laugh as the player clutches his chest like he’s having a heart attack. “You wound me.”

“You’ll survive.”

“You know, other bars are happy when we come in.”

“Then go there,” Oliver mutters.

“You’d miss us!”

His lips thin. “I’d recover.”

I lift my glass. “I’d miss you!”

“Thank you, Halston,” the player says with a dazzling smile.

Oliver points at him with a towel. “Do not encourage her. She’s emotionally unstable and keeps trying to make themed pastry decisions.”

“They like my Vipers turnovers,” I say.

“They were bright orange.”

I shrug. “They were spirited.”

“They looked infected.”

I roll my eyes. “You ate two.”

“I was testing whether they were safe for the public,” he retorts as he picks up another glass.

The player grins. “They were so good.”

I turn to Oliver with a triumphant smile. “See? The Vipers appreciate me.”

“The Vipers think beer is a food group.”

“Protein,” I say.

“That’s not how protein works.”

I slap my hand against the bar. “You wouldn’t know. You hate sports.”

“I know beer isn’t protein.”

“And I’m not hearing denial that you hate sports, Oliver.”

He gives me the kind of look that says he’s known me for far too long and regrets every second of it.

I smile wider. Annoying him is the closest thing I’ve ever come to a vitamin regimen.

My phone buzzes inside of the cup. A loud, ringing noise against the glass.

I lunge for it, but Oliver moves faster. An insulting realization, considering I try to lift weights a few times a week when my body isn’t staging a full-scale rebellion. I consider myself reasonably quick. But Oliver has bartender reflexes and the moral certainty of a man preventing public disaster.