Chapter 17
seventeen
. . .
Measure Twice, Stay Once
HALSTON
My financial books are not sexy.
This feels important to establish, because I have recently learned that a lot of things in life can, under very specific and deeply inconvenient circumstances, become sexy.
Warren King leaning against my prep table with his sleeves rolled up.
Warren King drinking my coconut latte in secret.
Warren King saying the word “lamination” in the same voice he used last night to make me forget that kitchens have health codes and counters aren’t technically furniture.
Warren King staying. For now.
It’s waking up at two in the morning and finding him still here. Feeling his heavy arm around my waist. Realizing that he did not leave me once I fell asleep, or even before I woke up.
Unfortunately, it’s devastatingly sexy.
But my financial books?
No.
They are not sexy.
They are a crime scene.
“This is upsetting,” I say.
Warren sits on the floor beside my mattress with his back against the wall, one knee bent, his notebook balanced on his thigh, and my laptop open between us. The screen is full of numbers, categories, tables, and deeply rude realities.
He looks perfectly calm.
Then again, the man could discover a haunted sinkhole under my bakery and probably say, “We should assess structural impact before we panic.”
“What’s upsetting?” he asks, his blue eyes flickering to mine.
I gesture to the laptop. “Math.”
“The math is neutral.”
“It’s judging me.”
He winces. “The math does say that you spent one hundred and eighty-seven dollars on ribbon last month.”
“That was brand development.”
“It says ribbon.”
“It was necessary.”
He makes a note.
“You’re a hostile accountant, did you know that?” I huff.
He shakes his head as he scrolls through my expenses. “Not an accountant.”
I groan and fall backward on the mattress.
The mattress that’s still on the floor because my life remains transitional. I’ve bought a bed frame three times and cancelled the order twice because the first one had bad reviews, the second looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office, and the third required people to assemble it.
Warren has not commented on my lack of bed frame.
Not once.
Not last night, when he laid down beside me after cleaning my kitchen like sex had been the easy part and staying was the thing that required courage.
Not this morning, when I woke up with my cheek on his chest and his hand resting carefully over my hip.
Not tonight, when he came upstairs after closing with coffee, my laptop, and the softest possible version of the sentence, “We should look at your cash flow before your next supply order.”
Warren looks at me over the laptop. “You also spent eighty-two dollars on specialty sprinkles.”
I throw an arm over my face. “Those were for morale.”
“Whose?”
“The bakery’s.”
“The building?”
I go with it. “Yes.”
“The building needed sprinkles?”
“Bitter Bloom has been through a lot.”
He’s quiet for a second. Then, “True.”
I lower my arm.
Outside the window, the fire escape sits empty. Sir Nubsworth has not appeared tonight, which means he is either off doing squirrel crimes or has entered a new era of personal growth without telling me.
The apartment smells of vanilla from my hair, coffee from the mugs on the floor, and faintly of Warren because he’s been here a significant number of hours today and my space feels like betraying me by holding onto him.
He has taken off his boots again.
His dark henley is still on, sleeves down, despite the apartment being warm.
His hair is tied back, but a few pieces have come loose near his jaw.
He keeps pushing them away with the same two fingers he uses to tap numbers into my laptop, and every time he does it, I think about pulling the elastic out entirely.
I’m a weak, weak woman.
A weak woman with poor ribbon budgeting.
“So,” I say, pushing myself onto one elbow. “Am I financially doomed?”
“No.”
“Are you saying that because it’s true or because you don’t want me to fling myself onto the floor?”
“You’re already on the floor.”
“Emotionally, Warren.”
“No,” he says. “You’re not doomed.”
I sit up. “That felt very quick.”
He shrugs. “These numbers aren’t awful. You have a cash flow problem. But not a big one.”
“Rude.”
“Not a talent problem.”
He keeps looking at the screen, which is probably deliberate. I think he’s learning that some compliments land better if he doesn’t make me endure direct eye contact while receiving them.
My throat tightens anyway. “That was smooth,” I say.
“Not really.”
“It was. It was like emotional support disguised as fiscal analysis.”
He sighs. “I was just stating a fact.”
“Which is Warren for giving me a bouquet.”
“I’ve never given anyone a bouquet.”
“That’s the least surprising thing you’ve ever said.”
His eyes move to mine, and for a second, everything disappears.
One second we’re talking about quarterly expenses, and the next I’m remembering him in my bakery last night, hair loose, mouth swollen, and hands all over my body.
I remember him cleaning me up after. Sanitizing the counter at least five times, and then helping me upstairs where he washed me up in the shower and kissed me until we fell asleep.
My body certainly remembers.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“About ribbon?”
“Your body.”
His words are soft, and my stomach flips. “I’m fine.”
“Halston,” he says firmly.
“I’m mostly fine.”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly is a respectable amount of fine.”
He closes my laptop.
“Are we done with financials?” I ask.
“For tonight.”
“Because we completed the review?”
“No.”
“Because you’re worried I’ll buy more ribbon?”
“I know you will.”
I smile, but he does not.
His eyes are still on my face, moving over me in that careful way he does. Not like he’s undressing me, although there’s room for that too. But like he’s checking for pain I haven’t admitted to yet.
I sit up fully and fold my legs underneath me. “You’re staring.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I’m trying to be honest about what I want.”
My pulse thrums heavily.
“What do you want?”
He exhales through his nose.
“You.”
It’s one word. Just one want, placed carefully between us.
My whole body answers. I hate how fast it happens. The heat, the clench, the memory of his mouth, and the awful, tender rush of being wanted by someone who doesn’t make me feel like wanting is a performance he deserves applause for enduring.
I crawl toward him before I can overthink it.
His pupils dilate. “Halston.”
I stop close enough that my knees brush his thigh. “Yes?”
“Are you sore?”
I almost laugh, but realize that he’s genuinely asking.
“A little,” I admit.
“Where?”
My face warms. “Warren.”
“Where, Hal?”
The question isn’t dirty. Not this time. It’s soft and careful. The kind of intimate that reaches places his hands have not.
“My lower back a little. Hips. Nothing terrible.”
He nods once, but his jaw remains tense.
“Then—”
I put my hand over his mouth. “Please don’t make decisions for me.”
He goes still. I feel his breath against my fingers, hot and measured.
“I know my body,” I say. “I know when to stop. I’ll tell you.”
He studies me. “Okay, and I’ll believe you.”
Warren’s hand comes to my jaw.
The first touch is slow. His palm is warm and his fingers are steady, his thumb brushing just beneath my lower lip. I lean into it before I can stop myself.
I kiss him before he can ask any more questions. He catches me immediately, one hand sliding into my hair, the other closing around my waist. The kiss starts slowly for maybe half a breath before it turns into what we both knew it would become. Hot and deep. Familiar now.
I climb into his lap, and he makes a sound against my mouth as he pulls me closer, his hands settling at my hips, thumbs pressing into the skin above my leggings. His body is hard and huge beneath mine. Controlled until I roll my hips and feel it crack.
“Careful,” he growls.
I pull back and look at him. His hair has come looser, his eyes are dark and his mouth wet from mine. “I thought you liked it when I wasn’t.”
“I do.”
“Then?”
“I also like when you’re not in pain.”
My heart flutters.
I move slower this time. His hands slide under my large t-shirt and up my back. The feel of his palms against my skin makes me shiver. He flattens one between my shoulder blades, the other staying low on my waist.
“Tell me if anything hurts,” he says against me.
“I will.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“Even a little.”
I pull back and look at him. “You’re worried.”
I’ve never had someone worried about this.
“Of course.”
“That’s really sweet.” A knot of something dangerous forms in my stomach.
“It’s basic concern, Hal.”
I bite my lip. “Warren.”
“What?”
“Let me have the sweet.”
He nods, and I kiss him again. Less to start something this time and more because I don’t know what else to do.
The laptop shifts beside us, and Warren’s mouth moves to my jaw, then to my throat, then to the edge of the mark he left last night. He stops there.
“I didn’t hurt you here, right?”
“No.”
His mouth touches the mark, and I close my eyes. He kisses it, and something low in me pulls tight. The man will ruin me.
He hooks one finger into the collar of my shirt and gently pulls it over my head.
His mouth closes over my breast, his teeth scraping over my nipple. I gasp, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
“God, keep going,” I hum.
I reach for the hem of his henley and he helps me pull it off.
And he’s exposed to me.
The tattoos still feel like new discoveries. Black ink over muscle and warm skin. The raven at his collarbone, the flowers down one arm, and the map on the other.
“This one,” I say.
His eyes drop to my hand. “What about it?”
“Why a raven?”
He’s quiet. Then, “Because Marley liked them.”
That surprises me. He continues, “She was seven. There was one that used to sit on the power lines behind our house. She named him Mr. Funeral.”
I laugh softly. “That’s extremely Marley.”
“Yep.”
I trace the edge of the wing. “So you got a raven tattoo because Marley had a bird friend named Mr. Funeral?”