Page 304 of A Taste of Vanilla
His arms go around me, his heartbeat loud under my ear. His body is warm and solid beside mine. And he wants to be here.
“Warren?” I ask.
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad we met at the bar again.”
His hand moves through my hair. “So am I.”
“Better this time.”
“I thought it was pretty great last time.”
“The first time did have its charm.”
I tilt my head up and kiss him because I can, because I wantto, and because the door is closed and the lights are low and the man beside me is mine in every way that matters.
When I pull back, he looks at me with that steady tenderness. “What do you need?” he asks.
I pretend to consider. “Water.”
He starts to move.
I throw a leg over him and press him back down. “In five minutes.”
“Hydration is important.”
“So is afterglow.”
He relaxes beneath me. “Five minutes,” he says.
“Ten.”
“Seven.”
“Done.”
He smiles. “Negotiation looks good on you.”
“So does your hand on my ass, but I’m being polite.”
His hand settles there immediately.
The bakery waits downstairs, messy and alive. And upstairs, with Warren’s tattoos under my hands, Warren stays.
Because we chose each other, and because this time, neither of us is running.
epilogue
. . .
This Is Not a Baseball Bar
OLIVER
I do not hate happiness.
People always assume this about me because I have a normal face and an appropriate amount of suspicion of public enthusiasm.
