Page 3 of Night Shift

“Unfortunately, leaving this desk to help cranky kids with their homework isn’t in my job description.”

Vincent’s eyebrows shoot up with surprise. He cuts a glance at the tables in the atrium, where two or three of the late-night studiers have looked up from their laptops and are staring at the star of our school’s basketball team like this is the last place in the world they expected to see him on a Friday night. Which leads me to wonder why, exactly, he’s here with one arm in a sling and a pressing need for British poetry. Especially since the rest of his team is supposedly throwing a forbidden party at the basketball house.

Vincent turns to face me again and presses his lips together, chastened.

“Do you think you could make an exception for someone who’s only got one good arm and is having a really shitty night?”

It’s a small surrender of his pride, but he’s clearly not used to having to ask for help or apologize for his surliness. But Vincent looks, for a moment, like he knows he’s being an asshole and wishes he could stop. Something about that softens the edge on my anger.

We stare each other down. I’m the one who cracks.

“Fine,” I say begrudgingly. “I guess I’ll just . . . come with you, then.”

It’ll only be five minutes of my life, and it’s not like I have much else to do besides reading about Lorenzo taking Natalie up against an elevator wall. I set The Mafia’s Princess face down on the circulation desk and flip up the little sign that tells people I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.

It’s not until I stand up from my chair that I realize how enormous Vincent is. It makes sense that he’s tall—he’s a Division I basketball player, after all—but I’m nearly five foot eleven, so it’s not often that I’m towered over. It throws me off. I snatch my lanyard, keys clanking against my water bottle in my haste, and loop the strap tight around my fist as I march around the desk and brush past Vincent. I catch the scent of laundry detergent and something warm and spiced—and then I absolutely do not think about how good he smells, or how small he makes me feel, or how much I like it.

The stairs are on the far side of the atrium, but considering I was just a few paragraphs from reading about passionate sex in elevators, I’d rather not trap myself in one with Vincent. He trails behind me as we climb to the second floor and plunge into the maze of books, weaving through the stacks like animals on the hunt. I’ve always been a fast walker. Harper and Nina bitch and moan about it when they fall behind, but Vincent—with his long strides—keeps up without complaint.

He might have his head stuck in his ass, but at least he’s not slow.

The British literature is tucked deep in a corner. One of the fluorescents overhead has burned out, leaving this nook of the library dim and oddly intimate. If anyone were to go looking for a private place on campus to make out, this would be the best spot. Not that Vincent and I are going to make out.

Jesus Christ, I scold. Pull yourself together.

This is what I get for reading smut on the job.

“Here we go,” I huff. “British poetry. It’s all sort of thrown together, but I can help you pick out some from the century you need, if you don’t know how to work Google.”

Vincent rolls his eyes. “Just hand me whatever.”

I tilt my head to the side and scan the spines on the shelf, reading off the titles and authors under my breath. Nineteenth-century British poetry is fairly broad, as far as requests go. I’ll need some more specific parameters if we’re going to hurry this up so I can get back to my book.

“What class is this for?”

“I’m taking a GE on classic British literature,” Vincent says. “We’re supposed to analyze a poem by Monday. The professor didn’t specify what kind.”

So, no pressing midnight deadline, but he’s still here instead of at the party with the rest of his team. Why couldn’t he wait until tomorrow morning and just come in with a hangover, like every other undergrad at Clement?

I regard Vincent carefully, my eyes dancing over his disheveled hair and the slight shadows beneath his dark eyes. He looks like he could use eight hours of sleep and a good laugh. Maybe he’s more anxious about this paper than he wants to let on. Or maybe the sling around his arm and the impending start of basketball season is to blame for his sour attitude. If I had my phone on me, I could send a covert text to Harper and Nina to see if they’ve got their hands on any intel.

But my phone is downstairs, and Vincent is standing next to me, tall and brooding and visibly agitated as he glares at the books surrounding us.

I stifle a sigh. One problem at a time.

“What are you in the mood for?” I pluck a few off the shelf—Byron, Wordsworth, Blake—and stack them in the crook of my arm for his approval. “Some poetry by an old white man, or some poetry by an old white man?”

Vincent doesn’t laugh at my joke. Instead, he takes the Byron off the top and flips it over to scrutinize the back cover.

My eyes catch on Vincent’s hand. It’s nearly twice as large as mine and moves with a confidence and agility that is, unfortunately, deeply attractive. If this were a romance novel, Vincent Knight would be the hero. There’s no argument. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and handsome in the most wicked of ways. He could be the Mafia hit man, the alpha of the pack, the cutthroat billionaire with daddy issues—he could scoop me up with his good arm, pin my back to a bookshelf deep in the stacks, and fill me. He’d whisper dirty things to me too. Not lines out of a bad porno, but poetry. Words of passion.

But this isn’t a romance novel. And if the way Vincent is frowning down at Lord Byron’s compiled works is any indication, I don’t think I should expect any poetry from him.

Stop thinking about sex, you miserable little shit.

“That was a joke, by the way,” I say, eager to fill the silence. “Everyone knows the best poets of the nineteenth century are women.”

Vincent hands the Byron back to me.

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