Page 32 of Night Shift

Vincent bites back a laugh. It takes me a second to catch up, but when I do, I fold my arms across my chest and sigh witheringly.

“So immature,” I grumble.

“I can teach you, Holiday. Just ask.”

I’m glad for the neon glow to hide my blush. “All right, fair enough. I walked into that one.”

It’s Vincent’s turn to laugh. It melts something in me.

Harper’s words echo in my head: The boy wants you. And I want him. But how in the hell does a girl tell a boy, in the middle of a very crowded and very public birthday party, that she wants to do very private things?

Nina leans in to my ear and says, “Ask him where the bar is. Jabari promised me a drink.”

It’s like she’s sneaking me answers during an exam.

“Hey, Vincent, where’s the—”

The song playing over the speakers switches, and suddenly all I can hear is the familiar opening bars of a 2016 throwback and the scattered gasps and cheers of people hurrying to find some open space to dance in.

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. I don’t think he heard me.

I roll up onto my tiptoes at the same moment that he ducks down, turning his head to offer me his ear. I’m so surprised by his closeness that I wobble and have to hold an arm out to regain my balance. Vincent’s hand comes up to cup my elbow. It’s barely a touch, but it’s somehow enough to make my whole body rock forward, seeking the solid heat of his.

“Can we get drinks?” I ask, my voice suddenly hoarse.

Vincent straightens and nods. The hand on my elbow drops down, ghosting over my forearm. I turn my hand over instinctively to catch his. And then our palms are pressed together, our fingers lacing in a way that feels far too practiced and familiar for a first time, and I’m fairly certain that I’m fucked.

Behind me, Nina laughs. I’m reminded of what she said about Jabari Henderson holding Harper’s hand to lead her to the bar at a party.

That’s flirting, you moron. It’s a move.

Vincent’s hand in mine is an anchor in the storm as we push through the living room and into the kitchen. At least ten different people call out birthday well-wishes. A few guys reach out to Vincent for a high five or a clap on the back. One is so intent on engaging him in a conversation that he throws an arm over Vincent’s shoulder and walks along with us while the crowd splits for Vincent and his commandingly broad shoulders.

This is a whole new side of him that I’ve never seen.

I knew, of course, that he was one of the big fish in the campus pond. But it’s another thing entirely to witness him in his element, surrounded by people who know him and love him and want a piece of him. I already feel like he’s mine—and that’s not right, because I can’t own him. I don’t want to. Nobody should feel ownership over another person. I’ve critiqued way too many overpossessive alpha love interests to become one myself. But as I watch Vincent mingle with the crowd, I feel the worst sting of longing.

I squeeze his hand tighter on impulse.

He casts a glance over his shoulder, eyebrows knit with worry. I give him what has to be the weakest smile anyone’s ever flashed at a party.

Pull it together, Holiday.

Do it for the plot.

Fifteen

The music is only marginally quieter in the kitchen.

Everyone congregates around the bar, which isn’t really a bar so much as a long table constructed out of plywood that’s being staffed by two very tall boys and a dark-haired girl with a gold hoop in her nose. Half the room is carrying a red cup. The other half is shouldering their way forward in the hopes of getting one. I brace myself against the swaying crowd and tighten my grip on Nina’s hand (so I won’t lose her) and Vincent’s (because I don’t want him to lose me either).

“It’s the birthday boy!” the girl with the nose ring shouts when we reach the bar.

Vincent laughs. “Hey, Priya. Any chance we get VIP access?”

Priya shifts some cases of beer and bags of red cups out of the way, revealing an opening under part of the bar. Vincent presses a hand to the small of my back, guiding me forward, and then I’m ducking to get under the plywood. Nina’s next.

“Oh, I like this,” she says when she pops up with me on the other side. “I like this a lot.”

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