Page 38 of Night Shift

“Tell me your interpretation anyway.”

I consider the page again. “She wants to be told she’s loved, but it has to be true. He has to mean it. It has to be more than just empty words.”

“Actions speak louder than words,” Vincent murmurs, more to himself than to me.

“Exactly.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m going to ace this poetry class because of you.”

“You know, technically,” I say, pointing a fingertip at his floor, “this is tutoring. Like, right now. So, I should probably charge you.”

He nods solemnly. “I’ll Venmo you.”

I press my lips together and cover the bottom half of my face with the open book to stop myself from giggling. Vincent’s eyes drop. I briefly imagine him ripping the anthology from my hands, tossing it across the room, and kissing me full on the mouth.

But he doesn’t. He’s still. Patient. Waiting.

“You know how you offered to pay me back?” I ask.

He nods.

I reach up and trace a fingertip over the curve of his shoulder. “What’s this muscle?”

Vincent exhales hard.

“Deltoid,” he answers.

I nod and let my arm drop to my side.

“Is that all you wanted to ask?”

“Yep. Curiosity satisfied.”

I turn to set Engman’s Anthology back on his desk. But Vincent follows—and this time, he presses his body flush against my back. I stop breathing entirely.

“You sure you don’t want to know what this muscle is?” he asks, tracing a fingertip up the outside of my forearm. I shiver when his knuckle passes over the tender skin in the crook of my elbow and continues up and over my—

“Bicep,” I croak. “Everyone knows that one.”

My hair tickles the back of my neck as he pushes it to the side. The only warning I get is his hot breath on my skin, and then his lips are pressed against the curve of my shoulder—so gently that at first I wonder if I’m imagining it.

“And this one?”

I can’t think straight.

“Um.” My voice is a soft croak. “Don’t say it. I know it.”

His lips press against my shoulder again, and this time there’s no mistake. My mouth falls open and heat pools low in my stomach as Vincent nips at the skin.

“Trapezius,” he whispers.

I spin to face him, immediately going weak in the knees when I realize we’re so close that I can feel the length of him against the front of me now. His mouth is inches from mine. I press a hand to his chest, trying to keep that precious sliver of space between us. I feel like I’m about to launch myself at him, but I can’t stumble into this blindly—not when miscommunication is the worst trope. If we kiss now, that’ll be it. I’ll forget everything that’s been bothering me and every question I need answered. And I know I told myself I was coming here for a onetime thing, but this feels like something worth the effort. Worth the risk.

I want to do this right or not at all.

“Kendall,” Vincent murmurs. It sounds like a plea.

“Wait,” I say, swallowing hard. “I have something I want to say.”

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