Page 63 of A Taste of Vanilla

“So,” I say, turning back toward him. “What do you do when you’re not ordering coffee in bars and interrogating emotionally unstable women?”

“I bake,” he says simply.

I blink, and then laugh.

He says nothing.

I wait.

“You bake?”

“Yes.”

“As in, professionally?”

“Yes.”

I look him over before I can stop myself.

The chest, the arms, the hands.

God, the hands.

“That makes a terrible amount of sense.”

His brow lifts. “Does it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you look like you could knead dough into submission.”

Oliver chokes on absolutely nothing as the man’s gaze drops to my mouth.

Everything shifts.

I should not have said that.

He sets his mug down carefully. “Dough doesn’t require submission.”

“No?”

“It requires patience.”

My stomach dips.

Oliver says, “I am begging both of you to speak about bread normally.”

I ignore him. “So you’re a patient baker?”

“Yes.”

“What else?”

His eyes stay on mine. “Precise.”

“Of course.”