Page 21 of Night Shift

“In my defense, dukedom is the highest possible rank of the peerage.”

“So, he’s rich,” Vincent says flatly. “That’s the appeal.”

“It definitely helps.” I lift my straw to my mouth. “But he’s also responsible and educated and apparently very talented at horse riding and other . . . physical things.” I’m proud of myself for not stumbling over the words. I feel very cool. Very casual.

Vincent arches an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

I nod and take a sip.

He smiles wickedly. “And how do I measure up?”

I choke on my cold brew, which is neither cool nor casual. But in my defense, I’m a little caught off guard. If I’d known we were going to do this—this flirty, bantering thing—I would’ve coordinated my underwear. I would’ve taken Nina up on the devious dress idea and asked her to be out of the apartment for the rest of the day in case Vincent and I needed somewhere private.

I glance around Starbucks again and lock eyes with a barista. Nope. No privacy here.

“Measure up how?” I ask. It feels like a dangerous question, so I pad it with: “Last time I checked, you don’t own any land in England.”

“But I’m a good kisser.”

My heart hiccups. “Well, that’s presumptuous of you—”

“I’ve also been playing basketball since elementary school, so I’m disciplined and I understand the value of hard work. I’ve been a team captain before too, so I can handle responsibility. Leadership. All that good shit. And I have a 3.7 GPA, so I probably won’t graduate summa cum laude, but I’ll definitely get magna—”

“Is there a reason you’re giving me your résumé?” I interrupt.

“I’m trying to prove a point, Holiday.” Vincent shrugs. “Seems like you have pretty high expectations for your love interests. You don’t seem interested in being courted by anyone who isn’t a billionaire or a royal or some kind of supernatural creature.”

That one hits a little too close to home, so I resort to my usual defense mechanism: snark.

“Courted? I’m sorry, is this Victorian England?”

“No, this is Starbucks.”

I could kick him. I really could. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you have unrealistic standards.”

His knee bumps against the inside of my thigh—the one that isn’t tucked up on the chair. I startle at the contact, but he doesn’t move to break it. He lets the weight of his leg and the heat of his skin press into mine.

I think of Nina’s parting words to me this morning: At least give him a handie under the table.

In one unrestrained burst of imagination, I see the appeal. I have long arms. All it would take is some clever but discreet maneuvering, and I could have my hand tucked under his shirt and pressed to the soft skin just above his waistband. At least, I imagine that it’s soft. My brain is pretty good at summoning the rest of the scene: the little trail of hair below his belly button tickling the pads of my fingers. The tug of elastic as I slip my hand into his shorts. Hot skin hardening in my palm while Vincent’s dark eyes pin me to my seat and say, wordlessly, all the things I want to hear.

I want you. I feel this too.

A little harder, Holiday, you won’t break it.

The trouble, of course, is that I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing. I’ve read enough romance novels to appreciate the mechanics of it all (the positions, the movements, the dialogue), but reading about sex feels different from staring into a boy’s eyes and knowing you want him inside you.

Vincent isn’t an empty shell I can project onto. Not anymore.

Right now, I don’t feel the same electric confidence I felt in our dark corner of the library. In fact, it’s hard to feel any confidence at all when I consider how Vincent left me that night. He didn’t stick around to say goodbye or let me help him check out Engman’s Anthology or talk me down from my panic attack in the girls’ bathroom. He’s given me no indication that he wants me in his life as anything other than a tutor. So, what does he want? A one-night stand? A girlfriend? A little fool he strings along for months just to see how far she’ll run after him?

“Talk to me, Holiday.” Vincent nudges his knee against mine. “You look like you’re spiraling.”

Because I am.

I huff and slam my iced coffee onto the table between us. “What do you want from me?” It comes out much harsher than I mean it to. “Because your note—I just—I thought this was a tutoring session, and then I get here, and you’re—” I gesture vaguely at the way he’s lounging in the chair across from me, arms wide and legs sprawled so they cage mine.

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