Page 65 of A Taste of Vanilla

“That sounds unhealthy.”

“It’s efficient.”

I slide off the stool because I need to stand before my body convinces me to do something reckless from a seated position. The room shifts a little, but not from alcohol. From adrenaline. And wanting.

From the very annoying realization that I feel alive in a way I have not felt in a long time.

The man stands too.

He does not step closer.

Oliver moves behind the bar. “H—” I cut him off with a glare, and he rolls his eyes. “Elizabeth,” he says as if it physically pains him.

He looks serious, and it tugs at the part of me that knows better.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“I didn’t say you’re drunk.”

The man watches us silently. Oliver’s eyes flick to him, and then back at me. “You don’t have to prove anything tonight.”

My throat tightens.

“I’m not proving anything.”

He doesn’t look convinced, and I’m not quite sure I am, either.

But there’s a difference between trying to prove I am wanted and wanting to choose something for myself.

At least, I hope there is.

I step close to the bar and lower my voice. “I know what I’m doing.”

His brows lift.

“Mostly,” I add. “I know what I’m asking for.”

That makes him quiet. His eyes search my face for anything he can find. He may see the panic and the heartbreak and the desire for freedom. But he also sees me.

I may be wounded. The abandoned bride. But I’m also me. Messy and shaky and still somehow making jokes because if I stop, I may just fall apart.

Finally, he exhales.

“I can call Marley,” he whispers.

“No.”

“I can walk you upstairs.”

“I know.”

“You can still change your mind.”

I soften. “I know.”