Page 5 of Night Shift

“Um, I should get out of here by five. I mean, assuming whoever has the morning shift isn’t a total dick and actually gets here on time.”

Vincent lets out a low whistle. “Jesus. That’s rough. How often do you have to work nights?”

“I usually volunteer to take Fridays,” I say with a shrug.

“Why would you do that?” He sounds almost affronted. “Everyone knows all the best parties are on Friday.”

“I’m not a big fan of parties. I mean, I definitely like drinking with friends, but I’m more low-key about it. Crowds make me—I don’t know.” I shiver at the thought of deafening music and dark rooms packed tight with strangers. “But I have a social life. I party, in my own way. My roommates and I do wine and movie nights every Thursday and boozy brunches on Sundays.”

The corner of Vincent’s mouth tugs up in a knowing smile.

“So,” he says, “Thursdays and Sundays, you party.”

“Yep.”

“And on Fridays, you sit behind that front desk reading porn.”

Three

My mouth falls open in shock.

“I don’t read—it wasn’t—it’s not porn.”

Vincent holds his hands up, palms out in surrender. “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a little self-indulgence. I won’t judge. And I promise I won’t report you for reading on the job, either, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He’s teasing me. My blind panic is replaced with exasperation. I lift my chin and glare at him with unbridled fury, but rather than looking intimidated, Vincent simply presses his lips together to hold in a laugh.

“Fiction,” I snarl, “is a healthy way to exercise the imagination—”

“Come on. You don’t need an imagination. You could walk into the nearest house party and find a line of guys willing to do whatever you want.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Vincent’s nose crinkles, like the idea sounded better in his head.

I fold my arms over my chest. My lack of experience with sexual intimacy is a sore spot, and he’s prodded it like a fresh bruise.

“I’m fully capable of hooking up, if I wanted to,” I say. “But I don’t, because college boys are immature little gremlins who play video games in dingy basements and say misogynistic shit for laughs and can’t find the clitoris. The men in my novels are passionate and accomplished and—”

“Fictional.”

At the sight of my withering glare, Vincent raises an eyebrow, daring me to say he’s wrong.

Instead, I say, “So, you admit that college boys are trash?”

Vincent laughs. I refuse to be proud of myself for drawing the sound out of him and instead turn to one of the shelves, my eyes dancing over the spines but not really catching any of the author names or titles.

When I risk another look at Vincent, he’s smiling at me like he’s found the last corner piece of an elaborate jigsaw puzzle.

“I get it now,” he says.

“Get what?” I demand.

Vincent lifts the book in his hand. “There’s a reason you love that poem so much.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you’re scared too.”

I laugh, more with bitterness than with humor. “Scared of what?”

“It’s Friday night. You’re young and pr—pretty smart, and you’ve got your head buried so deep in a romance novel I practically had to drag you out of it. So, either you think you’re above it all or you’re scared of putting yourself out there. You don’t want to give up control, and you don’t want to do anything if you can’t look up spoilers for the end. But love me for love’s sake. Books don’t change. People do. You”—he points at me with Engman’s Anthology—“are a coward.”

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