Page 14 of The Kiss Countdown

Out of all the guys I’ve dated, none of them have been able to rise to the standard my dad has set, and now I’mnot even interested in looking for a partner. How can I when my life is skittering like a car in need of alignment?

“Is your mom okay?” Vincent cautiously asks.

My nod is automatic. “She is. She and my dad are doing a cross-country RV trip. So far they’ve made it through Arizona and New Mexico, and she says it’s a dream come true.” I focus on the skyscrapers growing larger as we approach downtown and all the architectural beauty Houston is known for. “But she does have sickle-cell anemia, so some days are a struggle. And, of course, we don’t know how much longer she has.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says quietly.

Most people don’t know much about the blood disorder, other than the fact that Black people are more susceptible to it than any other group. I’ve often wondered if a cure would have been found by now if all those brilliant scientists, doctors, and big pharma companies had to deal with seeing their loved ones in excruciating pain on the regular instead of it being a plague to a group of people who too many doctors still inconceivably believe feel pain differently.

All at once, flashbacks of seeing Mom in pain at the hospital, with the threat of losing a limb or her life, sear my brain. I take a slow breath, trying to dislodge the pressure in my chest that always comes with the devastating reminder that I could lose her at any moment.

I take my phone from my purse to see if my mom ever responded to the message I sent earlier. Once I was all done up in my dress and shoes, I snapped a selfie in front of the full-length mirror and sent it to my parents.

There’s a message from her that readsLooking good, Mimi! Enjoy your night, followed by three heart emojis. Theload on my chest lightens, and I focus my attention back on Vincent.

“Yes, it was hard at times to watch her while I was growing up, but my mom is the strongest woman I know and the best role model I could’ve asked for.” Not wanting to bare my soul anymore to a virtual stranger, I clear my throat. “So, don’t you think there are some basics we need to cover for tonight? For starters, how long have we been dating?”

“Eight months,” Vincent says.

“Okay. And what’s my profession? What do I say if your sister asks about my family? Do I have any siblings?”

“Slow down, Mimi. You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be.”

My back stiffens. “First, I am not making this complicated. I’m trying to help you by making this relationship seem more believable. I’m pretty sure your sister’s not going to buy that we’ve been seeing each other over half a year if you’ve told them my daddy is a doctor but then I say he’s a warehouse worker. Second, do not call me Mimi. Only my family calls me that.”

“But won’t it seem more believable if I use your nickname too? If you ask me, Mimi suits you. Did you know it has different meanings in Hebrew, French, and English? My favorite is the Hebrew definition. ‘Rebellious.’ ” The word rolls off his tongue with an infuriating smile.

I silently count down from ten.

“One would think,” I say through gritted teeth, “that you would be more thankful toward the person doing you a favor and not purposefully try to antagonize them.”

Vincent chuckles, and despite myself I actually find the low sound sexy.

“I am thankful,” he says. “But just in case you need to hear it—thank you, Mimi. I mean Amerie.” He gets ahold of his laughter, but his grin is wide as he reaches over and pats my knee. Just as quickly, he places his hand back on the steering wheel. “I’m just trying to get you to loosen up a little. I’ve never said anything other than the fact that I was seeing someone. We’ll only be there for about an hour. Long enough for my sister to see us enjoying the evening together. Whatever questions she has, you are free to answer as you like. And for the record, it won’t matter to my family what profession your dad is in. Or you, for that matter. The only thing I need you to do is pretend you like me so she reports back to my mom with positive praise.”

I’m tired of people trying to get me to loosen up. First Gina, now Vincent. If there’s some commandment that says “Thou shall have fun,” I’ve missed it.

We come to another red light, and Vincent looks at me nervously. I haven’t verbally agreed to pretend to like him, and I think I’ll let him sweat it out. I turn back to the window, and Vincent lets out a low groan. I fight back a smile.

As we continue the rest of the ride in silence, I fight the urge to touch my knee in the spot where his hand was.

Chapter Six

According to Vincent, Camille finds any reason to host a party to be a good one. I haven’t felt much in the festive mood lately, but I have to agree with her.

After inching our way through downtown traffic, we park at the venue and find the elevator. Even though I’m in an enclosed space with a man who sets all my senses on edge, I feel surprisingly good. The bass pulses through the handrail and up my arm, and it’s like I’ve just woken up from a long sleep. When the doors slide open and we step onto the open rooftop, a spontaneous burst of laughter almost escapes. I tamp down the instinct, however, lest Vincent think I’ve lost my mind.

We’re at Skylawn, a five-acre rooftop park and urban farm that sits on what used to be the historic Barbara Jordan Post Office. There is a scenic 360-degree view of skyscrapers and highways, but paved pathways lined with trees and large lawns help you forget how high up you are. I planned a wedding here two years ago. The open fields are a blank canvas ready to be transformed for any occasion, and that day it was decorated with vases of purple hydrangea, roses, and calla lilies. The featured drink had been the Purple Rain, a vodka-based cocktail. At the end of the night, a drone show dazzled the guests with themost amazing designs in the night sky before the bride and groom took off for their honeymoon.

I worried I’d be weighed down by memories of the wedding and my old job, but that’s not the case. The festive atmosphere won’t allow it. Tonight, black, gold, and clear balloons filled with confetti are tethered to strings marking a path from the elevator to the largest of the lawns. A live jazz band plays an instrumental version of the “Cupid Shuffle.” As we get closer, I smile at a woman wearing a black cocktail dress who’s part of a group dancing right on top of a huge white floor light. Her shoes are off, and she sends a flirty look over her shoulder to a man kicking it out behind her in a maroon velvet blazer.

“Camille is probably somewhere in the crowd,” Vincent mutters beside me.

I beam at him before taking a step toward the lawn. “Okay, let’s go find her.”

“Let’s get some drinks first.” He places a hand on my back, guiding me to the refreshments.

I am not prepared when his hand touches my bare skin. Ripples of awareness radiate from the middle of my back, racing to the nape of my neck, and those little baby hairs stand on end. The baby hairs aren’t the only thing standing at attention, and I’m grateful for the booby tape. I fight the urge to pull away, instead focusing on the sparkly outfits and the aroma of appetizers.

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