Page 26 of The Kiss Countdown

Welp. I walked right into that one.

Gritting my teeth, I keep silent and focus as we pass a bush with beautiful pink flowers. “Do you have a landscaper come out?” The HOA here must be proficient, because the surrounding houses all have trimmed lawns and not a trash can in sight, but Vincent’s is the only yard with anything blooming in this cold weather.

“I am the landscaper,” he says. “Been doing yard work since I was strong enough to push a lawnmower, which, you can probably imagine, happened when I was pretty young.” He chuckles at my snort while balancing the box on his knee to turn the door handle. “Unless I’m out of town for an extended time, I take care of everything.” He nudges the door open with his foot and steps inside.

I’ve always enjoyed meeting clients in their homes tosee what insights I can glean about their lives from walking into their personal space, and visiting the occasional model home to get an idea of what I’d do with my own someday used to be my favorite downtime activity. As Vincent disappears inside, I pick up my pace, curious to see what I’ll learn about this successful astronaut who will be my temporary roommate.

The house has an open floor plan, so walking into the living room gives me a view of the kitchen with black appliances, a fixed island, and a round mahogany table. There is an L-shaped black couch that takes up most of the space in front of a large mounted TV. With a perfect view into the backyard through a sliding glass door, I spot one lawn chair and a telescope.

What I don’t see is anything on the walls. No family pictures, no art, no floating shelves. Nothing to spruce up the generic eggshell color and give me a glimpse of who Vincent really is.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask.

“Going on four years.”

I feel my eyebrows jump. Four years, and it still looks like this? At the very least, I would have painted an accent wall as soon as I had the chance. “I’m guessing with all the traveling, decorating isn’t on your list of priorities.”

Vincent’s head moves from the barren wall in the living room to the kitchen. “I just remodeled the kitchen and installed hardwood. You don’t like it?”

“Your house is great,” I assure him quickly, instantly feeling bad for insulting his home. I need to remember not every kid was like me—hoarding magazine clippings of furniture and free paint swatches from the hardware store in order to create old-school vision boards. I also need to remember that I’m a guest in Vincent’s house and actaccordingly by not insulting him. And really, it isn’t bad at all. With a few personal touches, the place could easily be transformed from “This is my home and I live here” to “Welcome to casa de Vincent, my fortress, comfort, and place of peace.”

“Your room is back this way,” Vincent says, snapping my attention back to him, and I can’t help but notice his voice is beginning to sound a little strained under the weight of the box. My dad always said there was an art to packing. One I’ve never mastered, always prone to overstuffing boxes to save time. And I’m pretty sure Vincent grabbed the box with my books. I bet now he’s wishing he hadn’t pranced off with my bag instead of letting me take it to lighten his load.

He leads me down a hallway, past a closet with French doors and into a room on the right. I can tell he tries to put the box down lightly, but it makes a loudthunkas it hits the floor. I clench my lips together to keep from laughing at the pained look on his face.

“Do you need a breather before you get the rest?” I say.

He lets out a gruff “No,” but is slow to straighten. Poor guy.

I shake my head and look around the room, stifling a gasp of horror. Scuffed slab is exposed from the floor having been ripped up, and there are only two pieces of furniture. A twin-size bed with a gray blanket and a dresser with a vicious layer of dust on the top. It might be my imagination, but simply looking at it makes my throat itchy.

When I meet Vincent’s eyes, he rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I didn’t expect to have a guest so soon.”

“You’ve lived here four years,” I say incredulously.

I’m trying not to freak out, but this room makes Motel 6 look like a four-star hotel. Did I really worry I wasblackmailing him, when all the while he knew I’d be walking into this?

Vincent winces. “I know. I’m sorry. I’d planned on laying carpet down before you got here but got held up with work. I should be able to get to it this weekend so at least you won’t have to walk on the cold floor.”

Dumbfounded, all I can do is nod before taking in the room again. My gaze lands on the window. No curtains. At least it has those sturdy wooden blinds that will keep anyone from being able to see through at night.

“You hate it,” Vincent deadpans.

Smart man.

I sigh, and this time I know I’m not imagining the scratch in my throat. “I’ll be honest, this isn’t quite what I was expecting, but I’ll make it work.” I pause to clear my throat as the tickle intensifies. “I’ll get some of my stuff out of storage to make it homier. After you lay down the carpet, of course.”

Vincent looks unconvinced. “Are you sure?”

I force myself to nod. If anything, this room serves as even more motivation to get my life together and find my own place.

“I’m sure,” I get out before a fit of coughing overtakes me.

“What’s wrong?” Vincent asks, once my hacking subsides.

I’m caught off guard by how quickly he comes to stand before me, peering down with obvious concern. “It’s the dust,” I say, fighting the urge to take a step back. Why does his presence always make him seem so much larger than he is? “It’s messing with my allergies. I’ll be fine, I just need to use your vacuum and duster.”

After a moment of studying me, Vincent shakes his head. “No. I knew I shouldn’t have brought you in here.” Heretraces his steps back to the box, squats with his feet braced and shoulders back in perfect form, and hefts it up again. “Come with me.”

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