Page 33 of Night Shift

There’s actually breathing room back here, in the open space behind the makeshift bar. My shoulders sag with relief. Then Vincent ducks under the bar to join us, and suddenly there’s less space, but I’m not mad about it. Not at all.

“What do you want?” he asks.

You. “I don’t know. What are the options?”

“Beer, wine, vodka, tequila, whiskey. Anything you want. Just . . .” Vincent winces, then reaches out to pat the side of an enormous plastic Gatorade barrel perched up on the bar. “Don’t touch the jungle juice. It’s got like six different types of hard alcohol in it. You’ll be blacked out before you finish your first cup.”

Nina wordlessly slips around us, plucks a cup off the stack, and dispenses herself a glass.

“Are you serious?” I ask.

She takes a sip and smacks her lips. “I’m never serious. Oh, wow. This is poison. Yep. Okay. You stay and do your thing, and I’m going to challenge someone to beer pong before this stuff hits. I’ll be making friends and enemies, if you need me.” She adds, in a mock-whisper she hides from Vincent with one hand, “Don’t need me.”

Then Nina slips out from under the bar and disappears, leaving me with Vincent.

Alone—and also very much not alone.

“I’ll take some red wine,” I blurt. “If that’s okay?”

I want to kick myself. Who asks for red wine at a house party? My drink of choice for cozy nights in with my roommates is a disaster waiting to happen with so many elbows flying around.

But Vincent doesn’t even blink. He flags down Priya, who’s busy distributing cans of beer to half the lacrosse team, and relays my order to her. She reaches for the boxed wine. Vincent redirects her to an unopened bottle hidden in a cabinet on the other side of the bar. Priya cocks an eyebrow and gives me a look that’s a little impressed and a lot intrigued.

“What’s the special occasion?” she teases.

“My birthday,” Vincent says. His tone is bored, but there’s a pink flush to his cheeks.

I watch as the cork is popped and my own personal wine is poured into a red cup.

“Here you go, babe,” Priya says.

“Thanks so much.” I put my nose over the rim and sniff. “Shit. Is this real wine?”

Vincent cracks a smile. “Of course it’s real wine.”

“I know! I just meant—it smells good. Not like the boxed stuff.”

For a solid three seconds, I’m convinced there are honest-to-God stars twinkling in Vincent’s eyes before I realize it’s just the reflection of the string lights pinned up around the crown molding over the kitchen cabinets. He looks so beautiful. And he’s so tall that, even in my heeled boots, I have to tip my chin up to look at him. The last time we saw each other, he was sitting down. Now that we’re both upright, I’m reminded how well our bodies slot together when he lifts me and I can wrap my legs around the middle of him. He was able to pick me up with only one good arm. I wonder what he could do with two.

Oh, God. Maybe red wine is a bad idea.

“How’s your wrist?” I blurt.

A bolder girl might stroke the back of his hand or trace little patterns on his skin with her fingertip. Instead, I clutch my plastic cup of wine in both hands, white-knuckled, absolutely killing this whole seduction thing.

“It’s better,” Vincent says. “The physical therapist cleared me to play again. I actually got to handle the ball in practice yesterday, which was a relief.”

I’d like you to handle me—

“Were you going to get anything?” I ask, suddenly not keen to be drinking alone.

Vincent shakes his head. “I’m good. Trying to keep a clear head.”

“For the poetry reading?”

“Obviously. I already butchered Blake sober. Can’t make a fool of myself again.”

“You did fine. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

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