Page 96 of Night Shift

I peel off the sweatshirt I’m wearing—a Clement basketball crew neck I stole from him the night we located my missing underwear where it’d landed on top of his wardrobe (turns out I’d chucked it pretty hard on his birthday, so my softball career may still have hope). I’m only wearing a thin cotton shirt underneath, and the library is chilly tonight, but freezing my nips off is a small price to pay for the win.

A covert sideways glance tells me I’ve pulled ahead.

Vincent is watching me, eyes on fire and a muscle in his clenched jaw ticking.

I go for the kill. Smoothing away a smug smile, I stretch my arms high up above my head, back arching off my chair and lips parting with a soft groan when the stiff muscles in my shoulders pull taut.

My phone vibrates in the back pocket of my jeans.

I half expect it to be a text from Vincent telling me to stop playing dirty, but instead it’s a notification from the roommate group chat. Nina, who was both overjoyed and deeply moved when I informed her the birthday condoms she’d given me last year as a joke had actually saved the day (“Oh my God, Kendall, I can’t believe I was there with you in spirit!”), has sent another picture of herself. This time, she’s modeling her favorite light-wash jeans and a delicate pink sweater that I’m pretty sure she found in Harper’s closet.

Her follow-up text reads: Thoughts???

She has a date tonight. And although Nina will never admit it, the steadily growing collection of mirror selfies in our chat tells me she’s a little nervous for this one.

I text back: Boo. Not hot enough. Wear the green dress with the spaghetti straps.

I can’t wear that one, Nina replies immediately. It’s fucking freezing out. She’ll think I’m weird.

Harper chimes in with: Trench. Coat.

Um??? I’ll look like a hooker??? Nina shoots back.

I send: And?

It’s radio silence for about thirty seconds, and then Nina sends another photo. Green dress. Camel trench coat. A crossbody bag she didn’t have to ask to borrow from me because she already knows I’ll let her use it anytime she needs to. She looks like the femme fatale in a 1950s French noir film. Harper and I immediately send lines upon lines of emojis—heart eyes, flamenco dancers, fireballs, shooting stars—that Nina responds to with a single middle finger emoji, followed reluctantly by a final message: Thank you.

I smile at my screen before I tuck my phone away.

It’s fun to take over the role of whore best friend for the night.

As if summoned, a shadow falls over me.

The guy standing on the other side of the circulation desk is tall—really, really tall—and beautiful but not at all menacing. Not now that I know him so well. He’s the star of Clement’s basketball team. The one all the sports broadcasters and NBA fanatics predict is going to be a first-round draft pick. The one who got ejected from last year’s big game for breaking the nose of a guy who totally deserved it. The one who recites poetry to me just to make me laugh and blush.

“Can I help you?” I ask, looking up at him through my eyelashes.

Vincent’s frown is begrudgingly defeated.

“I’m looking for a book,” he grumbles.

“Do you know the title and author name?” I ask, dragging the keyboard closer like I’m actually prepared to look up the ISBN for him.

“The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein.”

I just barely swallow my startled laugh.

“Right,” I say, all business. “That’s a tricky one. Very hard to find.”

Vincent nods. “You’d better lead the way, then.”

I shut my laptop, stow it safely under the desk, and prop up the little paper sign that tells people I’ll be back in fifteen minutes (a blatant lie). Vincent doesn’t step aside as I circle around the desk and slip past him. He lets our arms brush. But I’m nothing if not professional. I keep my chin high, pace brisk but casual as I glide across the atrium, weaving through the tables so quietly that none of the handful of yawning students scattered across the floor even look up.

Vincent follows so close behind me that I’m half expecting him to reach out, haul me back against him, and make me pay for teasing him. But he keeps his hands to himself. He’s a perfect gentleman.

It makes me fucking feral.

I stop at the elevators and smack the call button.

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