Page 9 of The Kiss Countdown

He takes the offered treats in his hand and sets it on the table, but still doesn’t look satisfied. “What about my sister’s party?”

Oh. That.

I sit back down, and Vincent relaxes. Vincent, the astronaut. No wonder he gave me his little sermon about being able to differentiate between stars and planets. He’d probably felt it was his moral duty.

“My sister was extending the invitation to both of us,” he says.

“Well,” I begin slowly, “I just assumed you’d tell her I couldn’t make it or something.”

Pretending to be his girlfriend for a conversation was one thing, born of desperation and bad planning. Attending a party hosted by his sister? That’s a whole new ball game, and a complication I don’t need.

Vincent shakes his head. “I can’t. Look, this may not make a lot of sense to you, but if I don’t show up with a girlfriend now, that beingyou, it’s going to cause a lot of issues for me with my mom.”

“But won’t your real girlfriend be upset if you try going with someone else?”

Vincent scratches the back of his head and clears his throat. He’s staring hard at the table instead of at me, and I narrow my eyes as I consider his sister’s words. Specifically, her doubting his girlfriend was real. Hmm.

I lean forward and narrow my eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve been lying to your family about having a girlfriend.”

He runs a hand over his face. “I have my reasons, as I’m sure you had reasons for lying to your ex,” he says pointedly, and I scoff. “Besides, don’t you think you owe me?”

“How do you figure that?”

He tilts his head like it should be obvious. “I just helped you impress your ex.”

“Well, I helped you by pretending to be your girlfriend in front of your sister.”

“Which you wouldn’t have had to do if I hadn’t helped you first.”

He has a point. Damn Derrick. This is why I like planning events. Everything gets written down and carefully considered, then the best and most creative course of action is picked. When I walk into situations blindly, shit like this happens.

“Not to mention,” he continues, “you ruined my favorite shirtandwasted all my coffee last week.”

“What? I offered to pay you back for both!”

As I see the barely suppressed smile and satisfied glint shining from his eyes, I clamp my lips shut, mad at him and at myself for rising to the bait. His smile only grows as he removes his coffee lid, picks up the sugar packets he grabbed (all six of them) and empties them into his cup. Next, he adds three single-serve creamers and stirs it all with a wooden stick. It figures he’d be the type of person who likes his coffee too sweet. Or, as my dad would say, he adds a little coffee to his cream and sugar.

He holds my gaze as he brings his cup to his mouth and sips. I try not to notice how some of the liquid lingers at the indentation of his full upper lip, and instead focus on his apparent aversion to securing coffee lids. The one he took off has been transformed into a holder for the empty packets. But ultimately, Vincent’s trash is nowhere near as interesting as his lips, and my eyes zero back in on his mouth in time to see his tongue swipe out and capture the rogue drops.

He sets his cup down and leans forward. “It was really good coffee. Ruined my whole day when I had to go without.” His voice has taken on a lazier drawl, and in the midst of a sudden hot flash, I have to wonder if he’s from the country.

I move back in my chair and fold my arms over my chest. He’s too close. Too big for this tiny table meant for cozy couples or as a solo workspace, and his presence closes in on me like we’re in a crowded elevator.

“Why don’t you call your sister up and tell her you were simply helping me out before she tells your mom?” I ask.

“My mom and sister work together. And Camille probably called her as soon as her foot hit the sidewalk.” Vincent sighs. “Come on, please? It’ll just be one night, and we won’t even have to stay for the entire party. You’d be doing me a huge favor.”

I really need to put all my focus on my business, but my conscience pricks at me. Vincent could have kept walking after I called his name, or run off as soon as he realized what game I was playing. But he didn’t. He helped me out, and everything played out better than I could have dreamed. Would going out for one night really be that bad?

I look into his eyes and let out a long breath. “Fine. I’ll go with you to the party, and then my debt is paid.”

Chapter Four

This time last year, I was already out with Gina, ringing in the New Year at a party hosted by my old job, with a lot of the heavy planning done by yours truly.

Like now, it was one of those perfect weeks in Texas when, although we were technically in winter, temperatures made it feel like fall. In between dancing and eating way too many fried mac-and-cheese balls, we took dozens of pictures against the silver backdrop.

I still have the photo where Gina is holding a cardboard mustache against her mouth and I’m holding a small sign that readsCheers!and we’re both draped with tinsel boas. We had a bet as to who would be the tipsiest by the night’s end, but going off our glassy-eyed smiles and snippets of memories of us singing while Mack drove us home, I’m pretty sure we both lost. I also remember waking up with a massive hangover, realizing that alcohol just hits different once you’re over twenty-five.

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