Page 179 of A Taste of Vanilla

We settle on The Vanilla Standard.

“That works,” he says after a moment of weighing it on his tongue.

When it’s done, Warren makes several notes for the next batch. Unfortunately, he’s right, and it needs less cream for the benefit of its structural integrity.

The folds need to be better, and the top of the pastry dough needs a better vent cut.

The second try is better.

The third is perfect.

We shift our focus to the drink. A coconut latte.

It takes less time, but I already know exactly how I want it.

Homemade toasted coconut syrup, vanilla bean, and a pinch of salt. Two shots of strong espresso and oat milk. Cold foam with coconut cream in it and toasted coconut sugar dusted across the top.

Warren insists on testing the ratios, but I insist on following the vibes.

We meet somewhere in the middle, which is becoming quite the theme.

I pour the first test latte into a glass and slide it toward him,but he just stares at it like it may expose him as a murderer in court.

“Drink,” I demand.

“I don’t need to.”

“You wanted to test ratios.”

He glares at me.

“It’s a latte, Warren. Not a bridge you have to jump off of.”

His large hand wraps around the glass, and I watch his fingers with the intensity of someone deeply sexually deprived.

Because I am.

There’s something deeply rude about someone having hands like that and then not using them.

He takes a sip, and I watch his mouth.

His eyes flick to mine as he sets it down.

“It’s too sweet.”

“Liar.”

“It is.”

“You liked it.”

He looks away.

“You liked it,” I say, softer this time.

“I’d say you may want to recalibrate your espresso machine. Make sure the espresso is as strong as these beans are supposed to be.”

“Dirty talk to me, Warren,” I joke with an eye roll.