Page 42 of The Kiss Countdown

“Do you have a brother?” I say quietly.

Vincent briefly glances at the wall, then away. “Yeah.”

I raise my eyebrows, waiting for him to explain why he didn’t tell me he had a brother before, but he remains silent. “Well, is he coming too?”

“No. He, um, passed away some years ago.”

“Oh, Vincent. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, it happened a long time ago. Do you want to dance?”

No, I don’t want to dance. I want Vincent to elaborate more on the bomb he just dropped—why has he never mentioned a brother? And what happened to him? I’m trying not to feel hurt, but if we’re supposed to be partners this week, with me working to impress his family, why would he keep this from me?

Each question must be clear across my face, but Vincent turns to me, his eyes pleading that I not push him on this. The hurt and irritation at being left in the dark fade, and what I feel for him is deep sorrow. I’m not entitled to the pain he’s no doubt been through, and he doesn’t oweme any explanations. But I do owe him my cooperation, so I nod and take his hand as he stands up.

Mr. Rogers tells Alexa to play the song again as Vincent places his hands on my waist. As we sway in silence with the other two couples, it no longer feels so cozy. Vincent has withdrawn into himself and seems a million miles away. The loss must have been unimaginable, and I wonder if there’s more to why Vincent doesn’t enjoy coming home.

We all call it an early night to get ready for tomorrow’s activity of a morning hike. Once Vincent and I return to the guesthouse, the first thing my eyes land on is the bed.

“You can have the shower first,” Vincent says. He still seems to be in some kind of mood. Not exactly gloomy, but more subdued than I’ve seen him. Maybe even a little lost.

It’s a feeling I’m all too familiar with, and even though he’s a grown-ass man, I’m filled with the urge to reach out and hold him until he finds his way back. I hold myself in check though, instead moving to my bag as I wonder where that came from. Hold him? I don’t hold men.

I find my pajamas, a long-sleeve cotton shirt and lounge pants, then take a shower. Trying to be considerate of not using all the hot water, I’m out ten minutes later.

Vincent takes his turn next. While he’s in the bathroom, I set myself up on the left side of the bed. After my nap in the car, I’m not quite ready to fall asleep yet, so I sit up with my back against the headboard. After smoothing the blanket over my legs, trying to get comfortable, my eyes are drawn to the spot Vincent will soon occupy. Judging where the middle is, I use the side of my hand to make a faint imprint of separation and frown. No, that will stillbe too close. I scoot more toward the edge. But what if I fall off the bed while I’m sleeping?

This is ridiculous. I shake my head and move back.

There’s no reason to be so apprehensive. This is a bed. Sure, there are multiple activities one can partake of in it; however, we are adults and will be using it for sleeping.

I make a conscious effort to put the awkwardness of the moment out of my mind, and by the time Vincent shuts off the water, I’m scrolling away on my phone.

Then he opens the door.

Steam carrying the masculine scent of his soap hits me before he takes one step into the room. Notes of cedarwood float in the air, but I swear it must also be infused with some kind of pheromone, because it sends all my senses on alert, feeding me an image of lounging naked, with Vincent’s arms wrapped around me, after a luxury picnic. Or maybe it’s the sight of Vincent with a white tee clinging to his muscles and those damn gray pajama pants hanging low on his hips.

Lord, are those the only ones he owns? He couldn’t pack some flannel or dingy fleece pajamas? Or one of those adult onesies that have a flap on the butt? On second thought, imagining Vincent’s butt is not helpful.

We make eye contact, and I flash a quick smile before going back to my phone. Hopefully he doesn’t realize that my eyes aren’t processing a thing as I stare at the screen, because for the life of me I have no idea what I’m looking at.

Vincent moves about the room. First he turns on the heater. It sputters to life, and I wonder how effective it will be overnight. He goes on to rummage in his suitcase and ensures the front door is locked before coming toward the bed. I hold my breath as the bed dips from the shift ofweight as he settles in. It seems much smaller with two bodies in it. Vincent is so close our elbows will probably touch if either of us moves.

So close Vincent could reach out and squeeze my thigh like he’s fond of doing in the car. Only now, in bed, he’d be able to let his hand linger. Or slide higher. I swallow hard.

“So it’s going pretty well so far, don’t you think?” I say with forced normalcy. Like all kinds of naughty thoughts aren’t doing leaps and sprints through my mind.

Vincent mimics my pose, sitting against the headboard with his phone in hand. He turns his head toward me. “It was a good start. One day down with six to go.”

His normally smooth face sports a nice five-o’clock shadow, and for the second time tonight my hand itches with the need to reach out and touch him.

“You didn’t shave today,” I remark stupidly.

Vincent runs his hand along his jaw and looks at me like he’s pleased. “Noticed that, did you?”

“I was just wondering if you’re turning into a lumberjack now that we’re out in the country for a bit.” Nice save.

His laugh is soft. “Maybe I will.”

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