Page 16 of Night Shift

I wake up the next morning soaked in sweat. At first, I think I’m getting sick again, but then I check the weather app on my phone and realize it’s going to be absurdly hot today for fall in Northern California. Perfect. Because on top of my anxiety about seeing Vincent again, I really need to worry about sweat stains and sunburns.

I’d normally turn to Harper to talk me down from my catastrophizing, but she’s at the gym for her morning swim.

Nina’s the one who helps me get ready.

“Wear my green dress,” she tells me. “The one with the spaghetti straps. You look so hot in that dress. Think about it. You can wear one of your grandma cardigans over it, so he suspects nothing. You get inside, and oh, what’s that? It’s so warm in here. You take off the cardigan, and boom. He’s overcome with lust. You fuck on the floor of the Starbucks.”

“You’re hereby fired as my life coach.”

I appreciate Nina’s enthusiasm and flair for the dramatic, but this isn’t a date. I pull on a simple T-shirt and some jean shorts. Nina glares at me with disappointment and disgust as I reach for my battered white sneakers and lace them up.

“I’m so disappointed,” she grumbles as she walks me to the door.

“I know.”

“At least give him a handie under the table or something.”

I shut the apartment door in her face.

Outside, I shove on my sunglasses and try to keep to the shade, like the gremlin I am, as I march onto campus. There are three different Starbucks on or near Clement’s campus. The main one is at the corner, right between the engineering and the journalism schools. It’s always packed, but the crowd today is sparse for a Monday. Looks like most of Clement’s student body is taking advantage of the sunshine and lounging around in the rolling green grass of the quad.

I order a tall cold brew and hunt for a good table.

There’s an open one tucked in the back corner. Shrugging off my backpack, I slump down into a leather armchair with a clear view of the front door. When I check my phone and realize I’m a solid twelve minutes early, I feel a tiny twist of embarrassment. But it’s fine. I’m fine. Nobody in this coffee shop knows what’s happening in my head. I’m just a girl having some coffee and scrolling through social media. Besides, there’s no sign of Vincent yet. I can always tell him I got here two minutes before he did.

So, I settle in, and I wait. And wait. And wait.

He’s late.

Five minutes late. Then ten. Then fifteen.

I pull up his email again, just to check that I haven’t accidentally fucked up the time, date, or location for this meetup. But I’m right.

I think I’m being stood up.

It’s a good thing this isn’t a date, because being stood up for my first would probably hurt.

Still, the caffeine in my stomach churns like battery acid.

You know what? No. I’m not about to let my day be ruined. I’ve made the effort to haul myself onto campus, I’m at a coffee shop with soft ambient music playing, and I have a cup of delicious cold brew in my hand. Everything is in place for me to have a lovely fucking morning. Without another second of hesitation, I reach for my backpack and pull out The Duke’s Design, a vaguely Regency-era romance novel about a headstrong woman and a duke who, in a rather convoluted chain of events, needs her to pose as his fiancé to prevent all his inheritance from going to his irredeemable rake of a younger brother.

The pretty pastel illustrated cover is far more suitable for public reading than the brazenly naked chest on The Mafia’s Princess. I haven’t touched that book since the night at the library—I just left it on Nina’s desk. I couldn’t even look at it without remembering the way Vincent tastes.

Which is absolutely not what I should be thinking about right now.

I take a long gulp of my coffee, so cold it makes the roof of my mouth ache, and start reading.

The Duke’s Design is clever and witty in a way that makes me want to read the author’s grocery lists. The main character, Clara, is probably a bit too progressive to be a believable upper-class white woman of early nineteenth-century England, but I’ve always preferred modern sensibilities to historical accuracy when it comes to romance novels. The duke is everything I expected—tall, broody, a little too concerned with propriety—but every now and again he has a line of dialogue that leads me to believe he’s going to say wicked things in bed, and I am very much into it.

I’m so into it, in fact, that I’m beginning to have a bit of a problem.

Jean shorts were a horrible idea. My thighs are sticking to the leather under me, and each time I squirm in the armchair—crossing and then uncrossing my legs—the seam shifts and presses against my crotch. It’s delicious and wonderful and absolutely not what I need while I’m in public.

I don’t register that someone is approaching my little table in the corner until it’s too late. But before I even lift my chin, I know it’s him. I recognize the sound of him clearing his throat. I recognize the feeling of being loomed over by someone who’s taller than anyone has any business being. So, when I tear my eyes away from the sex scene in front of me and look up, I’m hardly surprised to find I’m no longer alone.

Vincent Knight smiles down at me.

“How’s the book, Holiday?”

---