Page 35 of The Kiss Countdown

“You’ve taken such great care of your babies. What if I kill them?” I reach for my necklace. “You know what? Maybe you should just call someone to come care for them.”

I can’t help but imagine Vincent coming home after his mission to a room full of sad-looking pots. Right now it’s feeling like this will be a repeat of my failed NASA VR exercise. Only this time, plant lives are on the line. I don’t want to let Vincent down.

“How about this,” he offers. “For the next few months, I’ll walk you through the watering schedule. That way, when I’m gone, we’ll both feel confident that Gladys and Billie Jean are in good hands.”

I bend down to push at the top of the soil. It’s moist and gives easily. When I turn my finger over, a small layer of dirt coats the pad.

Vincent takes my hand in his, wiping my finger with his thumb before I can do anything. “I watered Billie Jean over the weekend. She’ll be good for at least another week.”

Part of me wants to laugh at how silly it is for us to be standing less than an arm’s length away, with a huge leaf hanging between us, as Vincent casually drops the ridiculous name of his plant. But all I can focus on is the tingle his thumb left like an imprint on my finger.

I fold my hands together and clear my throat. “If this is Billie Jean, I take it that’s Gladys?” I point to a white hanging pot with vibrant vines spilling out. When Vincent nods, I jerk my head to the succulents. “The Pips?”

He folds his arms across his chest and shakes his head in disapproval. “Of course not. They’re Neil Armstrong, Sally Ride, and Buzz Aldrin.”

I thought the dessert my mom texted me was sinful, but the way Vincent’s forearms look is downright devious. And the way his biceps strain against his shirt—treacherous. Vincent is a whole banquet of temptation.

“What do you think?” Vincent says, regaining my attention.

I snap my eyes up to his face and hope he doesn’t realize I was three seconds away from salivating over him. “Think about what?”

“Lasagna for dinner? I have a little more work to finish up and then I can pop some in the oven.”

Eating lasagna is the last thing I want right now. Eatinghimup though...

And it’s that exact thought that pushes me back to the stairs. “Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll be hungry for dinner. Don’t worry about me.”

Without another word, I run downstairs.

I skip dinner, deciding instead to work on my website. It’s so plain. I won’t be able to use pictures of events I did withJacob and Johnson. I’ll have to build my portfolio up as quickly as I can. The baby shower will help, but I need more.

In the meantime, I get lost in my work until I get a phone notification showing I have only 15 percent battery left. I didn’t realize how late it was, but it’s getting close to midnight. It’s a familiar comfort realizing I’ve gotten lost in the zone of planning and pinning after so long, but now my mouth feels as dry as cotton.

I get up, hoping I won’t disturb Vincent from his sleep as I walk to the kitchen for a bottle of water. Once I round the corner, I realize I didn’t need to worry. Vincent is standing in the kitchen in nothing but pajama pants.

Gray pajama pants.

My lungs fight to work as I stare at his bare chest. Without a shirt on, he clearly has strong, lean muscles. I’m looking at him in Ultra HD, and the view is glorious.

I lick my dry lips. “W-what are you doing up?” Not that I have the right to ask. It’s his house, after all.

“I was thirsty.” He holds up a glass that’s nearly empty, though I can see remnants of milk inside.

Milk. It sure does do a body good. And I still can’t take my eyes off his chest.

He sets the glass next to the sink and moves closer to me. “Did you need something, Amerie?”

Do I need something? Like to trace my hands all over his body? Yes, I need that.

“Amerie?”

“Hmm?” I jerk my gaze up. Vincent’s jaw is covered in stubble, since the day is way past over and he needs to shave. His eyes, hooded with sleep—no,lust—travel down my legs, and he swallows.

It occurs to me that I’m wearing nothing but an old college shirt that barely hits my thighs. At any other time I’dbe beyond embarrassed for someone to see me in this tattered shirt, but embarrassed is the last thing I feel with Vincent’s burning gaze on me.

What would he do if I closed the distance between us, stood on my tiptoes, and crushed my lips to his? Could my one small step lead to one giant leap for Vincent and me? Judging by the intense attraction, the invisible yet present force of gravity drawing us into each other, I’d say yes. And who am I to fight against the laws of physics?

Vincent licks his lips and his right hand flexes. I think he might be the one to make the first move by reaching for me. I hold my breath, waiting for him to do just that. First, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them, he begins backing away.

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