Page 79 of Night Shift

He steps back to tuck himself into his pants. Then he reaches down to retrieve his black jacket, which is thoroughly wrinkled and smooshed down with two distinctly knee-shaped imprints. I have to clap a hand over my mouth so I don’t laugh so loud the people down on the first floor of the bookstore hear me. Still, a snort manages to escape, and Vincent’s head snaps up.

“I can’t believe I did that,” I whisper.

“I can’t believe you did that either,” he whispers back, the corner of his mouth quirking.

“In public. Like, I’m sorry, what? Who am I?”

Vincent shrugs on his jacket.

“My girl.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like there’s no other acceptable answer.

“Your girl?” I repeat, clearing my throat when my voice comes out a few octaves too high. “You haven’t even taken me out on a date yet. What if I show up three hours late? Or chew with my mouth open? Or order the most expensive thing on the menu and bail before the check comes? Or talk about Maya Angelou the whole time?”

Vincent sees right through my deflection attempts.

“Then I’ll learn to appreciate Maya Angelou. Besides, I like to think Starbucks was our first date, so we’ve already gotten that disaster out of the way.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” I say. “That can’t be our first date.”

“Why not? Because it went so badly?”

“Well, yeah. But also because it’s deeply unromantic. I’m supposed to tell people that we had our first date at Starbucks? I’m sorry, that’s so embarrassing.”

“Would you rather tell people our first date was you attacking me in the library?”

My mouth falls open.

Vincent bites back a laugh.

“Oh, now I was the aggressor?” I demand. “That’s funny—because I distinctly remember someone goading me to prove it and telling me he was all mine to practice on.”

“And you still somehow missed the hint that I was into you.”

My cheeks are on fire. I make a big show of turning around and huffing like I’m done with his shit and fully intend to leave him here in the attic of the bookstore while his dick softens. Vincent hooks his arm around my shoulder and tugs me into his chest, so I can press my nose into the soft cotton of his sweater and hide properly.

“Sorry,” he says, sounding not at all sorry.

“Jerk,” I grumble into his chest.

I wrap my arms around his middle. For the first time, the heat between us isn’t the wildfire burn of lust. It’s a little different. It’s a slower and steadier kind of warmth. I hum. Vincent squeezes me a little tighter. It feels like he’s acknowledging that he feels it too.

“I would invite you back to the house to hang out,” he says, his voice hoarse in a way that tugs at my heartstrings, “but the whole team’s coming over to watch the Lakers game, and I know I said I want to introduce you to everybody, and I do, but I’d really rather have you to myself right now. I just—” He exhales. “I really missed you.”

I know exactly what he means. I want him all to myself right now.

And, by some great stroke of fate, I have that option. Harper and Nina couldn’t have known that leaving me alone for three days would end up like this. They’re going to lose their collective shit when they get back on Sunday afternoon and I sit them down for a PowerPoint presentation entitled So You Left Your Roommate Unchaperoned. Slide one: I Borrowed Your Mug, Harper. Slide two: I Gave Vincent a Blow Job in Public (Oops?).

I press my face into the crook of Vincent’s shoulder to muffle a giggle, but he definitely hears.

“You wanna share what’s so funny?”

“I really do,” I admit. “I think you’re gonna appreciate this one.”

He raises an eyebrow in challenge. “Hit me.”

“My roommates are out of town this weekend.”

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