Page 2 of Night Shift

I jolt and shove my book into my lap, hiding it under the desk. Margie is standing between me and the front doors, too busy sorting through her master ring of keys to notice how awkward my arms look and how red my face is. Behind her is the poor kid who’s been pacing back and forth between the computer and the copier. From the way his hair is standing on end and the look of utter defeat on his face, I’d guess it isn’t going well.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“The printer’s acting up again,” Margie explains. “I’m going to take this young man over to the engineering library to let him use one of their machines. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

Margie leads the suffering undergrad out through the front doors. As soon as they’re gone, I whip out my book and slide down in my chair, giddy with anticipation.

I can’t believe I’m getting fifteen minutes of uninterrupted reading time this early in the night—usually I have to wait until after midnight before I can kick my feet up and relax.

The Mafia’s Princess isn’t groundbreaking literature, but it’s exactly what I want out of a romance novel. The heroine, a quick-witted attorney, isn’t whiny or too stupid to live, and the hero, a former street fighter and Mafia renegade, isn’t so possessive that he’s a walking red flag. They’re both clever. They’re both driven. Also, it’s only the third chapter, and there’ve been two very well-written fight scenes. This is a good sign. Authors who write brilliant fight scenes tend to be good at other physical scenes—and if the banter and heated glances between the leads are any indication, I’m fast approaching what might be one of the hottest sex scenes I’ve ever read.

I’m so absorbed, I barely hear it when one of the student ID–operated turnstiles at the front door beeps and swings open. Maybe it’s one of the girls who just left, come to reclaim a forgotten water bottle or phone charger. Or maybe it’s Margie and the boy who needed to print. I should look up. But the attorney and her renegade are alone in an elevator, the sexual tension between them crackling like electricity, their breathing heavy and—

A shadow falls over my desk.

I lift my eyes reluctantly.

The guy standing on the other side of the circulation desk is tall. Really, really tall. I tip my head back to look at him properly—and oh. Oh. He’s equal parts menacing and beautiful. He has dark hair cropped close to his head and eyes the color of ground coffee. Eyes that are watching me with a look I can only describe as hostile.

My heart hiccups with recognition before sinking to my stomach.

Because I know him. We’ve never spoken, but I’ve seen him from a distance on campus and, occasionally, on screens. He’s the star of Clement’s basketball team. The player all the sports broadcasters and basketball fanatics predict is going to be a first-round draft pick. The one who got ejected from last year’s big game for breaking our rival point guard’s nose with a hard right-handed uppercut.

Vincent Knight.

Two

I’m huddled in my oversized cardigan with half of my blond hair pulled up in a messy knot and a romance novel in my hands. It goes without saying that I’m in no way prepared, mentally or physically, to face the most notorious member of Clement University’s beloved basketball team.

Vincent Knight is fearsome. He looks far more like the ex-Mafia romantic lead in my novel than a college athlete—except, maybe, for the sling supporting his left arm and the bulky brace wrapped around his wrist.

“Hi,” I blurt. “Can I help you?”

A muscle in Vincent’s jaw ticks. His right hand—the one not cradled in a sling—is clenched so tightly around his student ID it must be carving into his palm.

“I need some nineteenth-century British poetry.”

The timbre of his voice, lowered to a library-appropriate volume, cuts through the quiet and hits me square in the chest. I suppress a shiver.

“Sure. That’ll be on the second floor. If you take a right when you get out of the elevator and follow the signs, it’s all the way back by the—”

Vincent cuts me off. “Can you give me any specific books?”

It’s a totally standard request. The tinge of annoyance dripping from the words is nothing new either. It pales in comparison to what I see during finals, when a combination of sleep deprivation and desperation brings out the worst in humanity. There’s really no reason that one brooding basketball player should make me feel like I’m melting with embarrassment in my seat because he needs a reading recommendation.

Abruptly, I remember the romance novel in my hands.

My face burns as I roll my chair forward and shut the book, pressing it cover-down into my lap and praying that Vincent Knight can’t read upside down.

“Our overnight librarian is actually out right now,” I tell him in my most polite customer service voice. “Do you want to wait for her to get back, or—”

“Are you not qualified?”

My mouth shuts abruptly at his curt tone. Vincent Knight must be used to getting what he wants when he whips out the condescending remarks and the steely glare I’ve only ever seen him use on the court. I’ll admit that I’m intimidated—by the size of him, by the weight of who he is and how everyone at Clement knows his name, by the cool intelligence glinting in his dark eyes—but I’m not about to let him push me around.

“I’m in the honors English program. If anything, I’m overqualified.”

“Great,” Vincent says, unmoved. “Lead the way.”

---