Page 25 of The Kiss Countdown

It physically hurt my soul to check my bank account and see that the payment for my mom’s hospital bill cleared, but I find peace knowing it will never be a burden to my parents. Old muscle memory carried me through the process of boxing up my pots and pans, wrapping framed photos in old newspapers to prevent chipping, and cleaning every square inch to ensure the return of my deposit. I got it all done and didn’t bat an eye as I closed the door to apartment 2323 for the last time and handed the keys to the front office.

But now that I’m on NASA Road 1, I can’t breathe.

Who in their right mind would think it’s a good idea to move in with a stranger—no, to practically blackmail a stranger—all to avoid relying on their mom and dad? Me, apparently. Because when you boil everything down, that’s exactly what I’ve done. I realized Vincent had a need and made sure everything worked for my benefit. Now, I’m not only keeping things from my parents but also taking advantage of someone.

“This is going to be a disaster.”

Instead of turning left at the upcoming intersection, I see a Starbucks on the corner and pull in. I order an iced coffee and park, trying to think of any good reason I shouldn’t find the nearest extended-stay motel. Yes, it would be pricier compared to the free-ninety-nine option Vincent is offering, but I wouldn’t be putting myself in the middle of a complicated mess.

I don’t find a motel, though. Instead, I do what every other person who grew up glued to their cell phone does when stressed: disassociate from life by browsing social media as my mind wanders and blood pressure returns to normal.

For one, I am not blackmailing Vincent. I haven’t threatened to expose him to his family if he doesn’t comply. Two, he’s getting a lot out of this arrangement as well. Three, he’s a grown-ass man capable of getting himself into and out of deals. Four... well, those are the only points that matter in this instance, because I’m still lying to Mom and Dad. But for good reason.

Steady breath in and ease it out. Yes, this is the way.

I go for a sip of my iced coffee only to be met with the hollow sound of ice. It’s just as well. I’ve wasted enough time, and I know I won’t, or can’t, back out.

When I set the cup down, my phone pings with a message from Vincent.

Vincent: In case it’s hard to see the house number, mine is the one with pink camellia bushes.

Vincent: The Benz will be in the garage, and I’m going to move my truck to the street. Feel free to park on either side of the driveway.

Two texts in less than a minute. Is Vincent also nervous about this arrangement? Yesterday I sent him a text that I would be there by twelve, but thanks to my pit stop it’s twenty minutes past. Maybe he thinks I’m having a change of heart and am going to leave him high and dry.

I send him a message to quell any fears.

Me: Thanks. I’m about ten minutes out.

Vincent: Don’t text and drive.

I roll my eyes and bring the navigation back up. It’s time to get to Vincent’s house.

Eight minutes later, I arrive at a traditional-style redbrick house with white trim around the windows and a black door. As soon as I park on the left side of the three-car garage, Vincent comes outside, and my pulse picks up.

Seeing him here, out of his pressed slacks and Oxfords and instead sporting a fitted navy sweater with dark-wash jeans, it’s undeniable that I’m here in his territory and this is happening. I’ll have to get used to seeing and interacting with this version of Vincent. What else will I have to get used to? Him walking around with no shirt? Or worse, no pants?

Knowing he can’t see me that well through my tinted windows, I take a few moments to center myself. This doesn’t have to be a big deal. We’re temporary roommates, and that’s it. I kill the engine and step out.

As soon as I pop the trunk, Vincent is all over my things.

“I’ll get everything inside for you,” he says.

I meet him at the back of the car, frowning as he reaches in for the first box until I notice how his muscles flex as he pulls it out.

“Ready to see your new home?”

I snap my gaze away from his arms. “You mean temporary home.” I’m here until his mission is over—sooner if business takes off—then I’m out. “Oh, let me grab that.”

He’s got my Vera Bradley weekender hooked onto his forearm, but when I reach for it he sidesteps me to walk toward the house. I cross my arms and follow him. One thing I won’t do is beg a man to let me help him. Living by myself on the second floor, I had to do all the heavy lifting myself, be it groceries or packages dropped at the front office. That damn farmers market table. And though I grew up to the likes of my mom jamming out to “Independent Women Part I,” Vincent can take it from here.

Still, I can’t resist digging at him. “Me man, big muscles,” I say with a deep voice.

Vincent quickly looks back. “Ah, so you admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“You’ve noticed the guns.”

---