Page 238 of A Taste of Vanilla

“It is for me.”

Downstairs, the bakery is closed. We open late on Mondays, and we have forty-five minutes before Lisa arrives, fifty before Dev, and at least an hour before Marley, who texted me last night to say she was sleeping in because content creation has destroyed her bones.

So, naturally, this is when my apartment door unlocks.

My entire soul leaves my body.

Warren turns off the sink.

The door swings open, and footsteps climb the stairs two at a time. When Marley steps into the room, I can’t breathe.

She’s carrying a pink bakery box, a stack of printed labels, and a tote bag full of what looks like ribbon samples.

“Okay, I know I said I was sleeping in, but the packaging place called me early and I found this ribbon that would be perfect or emotionally manipulative—I need you to tell me which?—”

She stops.

Her gaze bounces from me to Warren’s shirt on my body, then to Warren standing shirtless.

The bakery box slides from Marley’s hand.

Confusion flashes in her eyes before realization sets in.

And then the smallest, most devastating flicker.

Oh, I was right.

Then hurt.

“Oh,” she says flatly.

I put the mug down on the table.

“Marley,” I say quietly.

She laughs once.

“Wow.”

Warren steps forward. “Marley.”

Her gaze cuts to him. “Do not.”

He stops.

Marley looks back at me, and the hurt under her anger makes me feel like vomiting.

“So this is happening.”

I swallow. “Yes.” It comes out small.

“How long?”

I look at Warren.

“Don’t look at him like you’re trying to get your stories straight. Tell me how long.”

Warren’s voice is low. “It started the night before you introduced us.”