Vincent doesn’t see me at first—the crowd is too thick, and I’m half-hidden behind my friends. But I see him.
His dark hair shines under the neon glow of the cyan and magenta lights, and his face is something carved out of Greek antiquity—all hard angles and romantic curves cast in chiaroscuro. Even surrounded by assorted student athletes, Vincent is impressively tall and broad. He looks more dignified than a prince of the underworld. More dangerous than a Mafia hit man on the job. More dominant than a billionaire in a tailored suit. Which is an utterly silly thing for my brain to decide, since he’s just wearing a black T-shirt, dark-wash jeans, and scuffed white sneakers—basic college boy party attire.
The brace that’s been on his left arm for weeks is gone. The sight of his bare wrist, lightly freckled and covered with fine hair, shouldn’t be this erotic, but fuck, I’m gawking like a Victorian who’s spotted a stray ankle.
My gaze trails up a few inches and lands on the two black marker lines drawn on his forearm. Tally marks. I’m not so totally out of touch with campus culture that I don’t know about the old Clement birthday tradition of having a drink for each year of life you’ve survived, but it’s a little hard to believe that our star basketball player is only two drinks deep at nearly ten o’clock on his twenty-first birthday.
And then I see Vincent’s face, and I know for a fact that he’s sober.
The boy looks exhausted.
Jabari claps him on the back—a move that seems half comforting and half mocking—and Vincent startles, then sighs wearily when he recognizes whose arm is slung over his shoulder.
“Vinny, I’ve got some good news—”
“Oh, God. What did you do?”
“What do you mean, what did I do?”
“You look like you did something. I don’t trust you.”
“Damn, you’re in a mood. Do you need another drink? Because I’ll get you a drink. Vodka Sprite? Rum and Coke? I don’t know what the fuck goes in an old-fashioned, but I’ll do my best.”
Vincent cracks a smile—reluctantly—and scrubs a hand over his face. “I don’t need a drink. I need about two hundred fewer people in this house. We’re going to get shut down before everyone who was actually invited gets here. Seriously. Who are half these people?”
“All right, all right,” Jabari concedes. “I’ll tell Griffin to turn down the music, and I’ll personally keep an eye on the freshmen and make sure none of ’em end up with alcohol poisoning. But before I go do that—”
“I told you, I’m not doing body shots.”
“—I got you a birthday present.”
Vincent winces like he’s expecting the worst, but then Jabari steps aside, presenting me with a sweep of his arm like he’s one of the showgirls on The Price Is Right and I’m a brand-new Jet Ski that some poor bastard is going to have to pay exorbitant taxes on.
Vincent, the poor bastard in question, goes slack-jawed.
“Holy shit,” he says. “Kendall.”
Jabari throws back his head and hollers, “Suh-prise, shawty!”
It’s not exactly how I pictured our reunion (it definitely doesn’t have the sublime romantic impact of Mr. Darcy marching across the misty moors to tell Elizabeth he loves her), but I try to push through the disappointment. It’s fine that it’s almost too loud to hear each other and too dark to see each other. It’s fine that there are sweaty drunk people on all sides of us. It’s fine that Jabari, Nina, and Harper are watching Vincent and me stare at each other like we’re exams that the other hasn’t studied for.
I’m suddenly hyperaware of the fact that my shoulders are hunched and I’ve got my arms wrapped around myself. I let them drop to my sides and try to hold my chin high. Vincent’s eyes immediately dip to my collarbone, and then down—all the way to the base of my bare sternum. I feel the heat of his gaze like a physical touch. He tugs his eyes back up to mine and swallows hard.
“You came,” he rasps.
It’s too easy of a double entendre. A cheap shot, really.
“I was promised a poetry reading.”
“Right.” The corner of Vincent’s mouth twitches. “Prepare to be blown away, Holiday. I memorized some Shel Silverstein just for you.”
I laugh, too relieved to do much else. Because this? The bantering thing? This is comfortable and familiar and so fun it makes me dizzy.
I could do this shit all night.
“Is this really how y’all flirt?” Jabari asks.
The question is delivered with a surprising amount of fondness, but Vincent still startles like he’s only just remembered that his friend is standing next to us. His expression smooths over into a hard mask. I’m reminded of the boy who came in during my shift three weeks ago: cold, confident, stuck somewhere halfway between aloof and asshole. He was embarrassed that night. Out of his element, out of sorts, and frustrated that he needed my help.
This brooding thing he does is his defense mechanism.
“Hey, Henderson,” Vincent says, “can you fuck off?”
Jabari doesn’t seem the least bit offended. He salutes his teammate, turns to Harper, and says something to her that I can’t catch over the music. She nods and gestures to Nina, then grabs me by my sleeve and hauls me close so she can shout into my ear.
“I’m gonna go upstairs and meet some of Jabari’s teammates. I’m leaving Nina to wing-woman for you, because you’re hopeless and I don’t trust you, so do what she says, okay?”
“But—”
“Nope. The boy wants you, Kenny. Don’t fuck it up for yourself.”
Harper gives me a soft—yet slightly condescending—pinch on my cheek, and then she and Jabari are lost to the crush of the crowd. I look to Nina, who folds her arms over her chest and widens her stance, like a bouncer outside a bar, before nodding at me.
“He didn’t give you any trouble, did he?” Vincent asks like it’s supposed to be a joke, but there’s a worried edge to his voice, and his eyebrows are pinched.
“Is he always like that? So . . .” I search for the right word. “. . . forward?”
“He’s a shooting guard, actually.”
I blink.
“It’s a basketball joke.”
“Oh. See, I don’t know all of the positions.”
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.
