Page 164 of A Taste of Vanilla

He looks at me. “The office is open. The couch is awful, but it’s better than the floor or sitting here on the table with zero back support.”

“I don’t need a couch.”

Both men look at me.

“Can I move the heating pad to his office?” Warren asks.

His politeness is going to ruin me. “Okay.”

“Do you want to walk on your own?”

I frown. “Yes.”

“Do you want anyone with you?”

I shake my head.

There’s no argument or hovering.

I walk myself to Oliver’s office. It’s exactly what you would expect. Small and dim, smelling faintly of paper, whiskey, and existential dread. There’s a desk and a stack of paperwork, a battered leather couch, a lamp with a crooked shade, and three framed photos lying face down because Oliver claims sentimentality weakens everything.

Warren plugs the heating pad in and sets it on the couch. He leaves the room and returns moments later with a glass of water and my bag of emergency gummy worms. Then he goes back for the latte he made me.

I sit before I fall. The heating pad is warm already, and I press it low against my abdomen and try not to make the small, pathetic sounds that I want to make.

Warren reaches for the lamp. “Light off?”

“Dim.”

He adjusts the lamp so the light is dimmer and steps back. “I’m going to handle everything else. Lisa and Dev can manage other duties. They’re coming in early.”

I stare at him. “You texted them?”

“I asked Oliver to.”

I bite my lip. “Can you do me a favor?”

He eyes me. “Maybe.”

“Can you make sure you’re not talking to them like a robot? They’re not used to it.”

His cheeks pinken, and he nods.

I lean back against the couch, heating pad pressed to me, my eyes heavy. Warren remains standing near the desk, broad and steady.

“You can go,” I say.

“I can.”

I look at him. “What?”

“Pain-safe food?”

The question catches me off guard. “What?”

“What can you eat during a flare?”

I blink.