Page 45 of The Kiss Countdown

I touch the scarf while looking up at Vincent. It’s warm from his body heat, and the scent of his face lotion wafts up to me. “Thank you.”

“How stylish is that?” Mrs. Rogers says. She steps out the back door, with Mr. Rogers right behind her. She makes a show of trying to style her own scarf in the same simple fashion before giving up. “Vincent, can you come give me a hand with this?”

I stifle a smile when Camille looks at me and rolls hereyes. We both know full well Mrs. Rogers’s helpless act is a ploy to get her son to dote on her. And it works. Even my weary heart can barely take it when Vincent towers over her and ties her scarf before leaving a kiss on her cheek.

We begin the hike by heading toward the line of trees behind the guesthouse. Vincent’s parents take the lead, followed by Vincent and me, Brianna and Sheba, then Lance and Camille.

Green grass quickly gives way to a worn dirt trail, then there’s nothing but white stone and loose rock as we venture farther from the cabin. From our fantastically low vantage point, I’m in awe of the many hills in the distance that make a mosaic of greens and browns. As we approach some low bushes and cactuses, I glance back to check on Sheba and hope she’s staying clear of the sharp spines. What I see, however, is Vincent staring at my ass. Intently. So focused, it takes him a few seconds to realize I’ve turned around. Once he does, he blinks hard, as if coming out of a trance, then meets my gaze before looking off into the distance.

After waking up draped over him this morning and going gaga again when we were getting ready, it’s a nice ego boost to see he’s attracted to me even if he’s good at hiding it. And as I face forward again, I may be adding some extra sway to my hips.

“Potty break,” Brianna announces after a while.

Everyone pauses for water while Sheba sniffs and circles around to do her thing. After I hand my canteen back to Vincent, I’m drawn to a patch of yellow flowers growing beside an old rotting log. It’s a splash of life against the otherwise monotonous white terrain and sparse tufts of dormant grass.

“Daffodils,” I say, pointing at them as Vincent comes to stand next to me.

He smiles at me before squatting down to pluck one. “Maybe you should have been a botanist.” He straightens up, twisting it by the stem with his long fingers as he faces me. “You know, these begin sprouting around springtime and are said to represent rebirth and new beginnings.”

New beginnings. I like the sound of that. It makes everything seem possible. Like it’s possible that my business will thrive. That the secrets I’ve held back from my parents will be worthwhile as I pick up the pieces of my life. That the days of uncertainty over where I’ll live next and all the lies will once and for all be a thing of the past.

Standing here with Vincent now, I realize how glad I am for that fateful day in the café.

Thank you for teaming up with me. For giving me this time to get my head on straight and ensure my parents enjoy the best of whatever time they have left togetheris what I want to say. My whole body tenses as I fight the sudden compulsion to slide my hands up Vincent’s broad chest and hold on for all I’m worth. This can’t be good for my health. Neither is the fact that I’m standing here with his scarf keeping my neck warm, inhaling Vincent’s scent with every breath, and the memory of waking up pressed against him has yet to leave the forefront of my mind.

I glance to the sky, knowing full well that even if there were a full moon driving my reaction to him, I wouldn’t be able to see its glow now that the sun is out. But breaking our eye contact does have the added benefit of allowing me to catch a breath, so when I glance back at Vincent my emotions are firmly contained and what comes out of my mouth is “You are just a well of knowledge.”

“Knowledge is power,” he responds.

With the flower still in his hand, he twists it one more time before reaching up to place it in my hair. I’m takenaback by the unexpected movement, and my eyes go wide while Vincent smiles at his handiwork.

“I’d use more to make you a proper crown, but we try not to take from Mother Nature too much.” His eyes roam over my face and hair. “Not that beauty like yours needs much adornment.”

I know it’s all an act. I know this. But damn. Be still my heart. Vincent hits every cue and knows all the right words. Not only does he call me beautiful, but with his eyes reflecting nothing but sincerity, I feel it. Now it’s really too much. A brush against my leg gives me the excuse to look away.

Sheba, having done her business, has just passed by me and now inspects the flowers. She sniffs one then sneezes and growls at it.

“Smart pup,” Vincent says. “They’re poisonous if eaten.”

“Come here, Sheba,” Brianna calls. “We don’t need any accidents this weekend.”

Like he’s a magnet I’m fighting to pull away from, I can’t help but sneak another glance at Vincent. His expression is once again concealed behind his usual easygoing demeanor, carrying none of the intense weight from moments before. He picks up a long stick near his foot, tests its sturdiness by striking one end against the ground, and grins at me.

Men and their tools.

“I bet you just loved it out here when you were a kid,” I say. “What with all the rocks and plants.”

“Oh yeah,” Mrs. Rogers says, coming to stand with us. “When they were younger, Vincent and Octavius would explore all around here from sunup to sundown. There was some explorer they always pretended to be—Joe Buckworth, I believe.”

“James Beckwourth,” Vincent corrects. His gaze is backon the daffodils, though a faraway look dims his eyes, and I realize Octavius must be his brother’s name.

Mrs. Rogers snaps her fingers. “That’s right.” She lets out a low laugh and looks at me. “You should’ve seen them. Always coming home with rocks or new walking sticks. All rare and special, of course. Vincent, do you remember when you two nursed that bird with a broken wing? Camille ran around screaming bloody murder when that thing started flying around, while y’all tried catching it with a pillowcase. Of course, Brianna had to copy her big sister, so she started screaming too.”

A hectic scene plays out in my mind of a young Vincent and his siblings running around their beautiful home, complete with yelling and floating feathers. I can only imagine the messy aftermath of such an event. It would have been a world away from my solo childhood of quietly playing with Barbies in the aged dollhouse one of our old neighbors had gifted me.

“You and Tay always were my adventurous ones,” Mrs. Rogers says, smoothing the sleeve of Vincent’s right arm. “Come on. Let’s go to the creek.”

Before taking off, she looks at me with a gleam in her eye and a smile that grows when she sees the flower Vincent placed in my hair.

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