Page 66 of A Taste of Vanilla

Oliver looks at the man, and whatever passes between them is silent, male, and deeply irritating.

He does not flinch.

“If she changes her mind, you leave,” Oliver says.

“Obviously.” The man nods.

“You don’t make this worse.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t get clever with me.”

“I’m not clever.”

I laugh softly.

The man looks at me. “Do you want to leave?”

It’s a direct question. No pressure or assumption. No performance. Just a door opening in front of me.

I think about Grant’s office and his hand on Elise’s hip. His voice turning my pain into drama. I think about my ring at the bottom of his coffee and my car gasping onto the shoulder near a Wawa. I think of the night alone above this very bar and of drawing roads that lead away and back.

I think of Suzy Homemaker and her perfect fake pantry.

Then I look at the man in front of me.

His severe face and steady hands. His controlled mouth and the way he asked before flirting.

“Yes,” I say finally.

Oliver closes his eyes and curses under his breath.

The man’s gaze doesn’t move from mine.

“With me?” he asks.

A shiver makes its way down my spine.

“Yeah, with you,” I confirm.

A pained sound comes from behind me as Oliver grabs a clean glass. I watch Oliver as he fills it with water and pushes it toward me. “Finish this first.”

“Seriously?” I stare at him.

“Yes.”

The man says, “He’s right.”

I turn to him. “Do not team up with him before we even leave.”

“You should drink the water.”

“Oh my god.”

Oliver’s mouth twitches despite himself.

And I drink. All of it. Rather aggressively, honestly.