Page 61 of The Defender
CHAPTER 17
BROOKLYN
I was a coward. I could admit it.
Instead of answering Vincent’s text last night or watchingBake Off, which would’ve inevitably made me think of him the entire time, I’d holed myself up in my room to work on my ISNA essay. That way, if he asked, I could say I’d been busy and hadn’t seen his text until the morning.
It wasn’t the most noble response to an innocent invitation. However, his suggestion had seemed far too intimate—us on the phone together for an hour, watching a show that’d become an inside joke between us while he made quippy observations in that velvety voice of his.
No, thank you. Didn’t happen, was nevergoingto happen.
Thankfully, his absence gave me time to reset. I hadn’t been taking our bet seriously enough recently, and the best way to restore the status quo in our relationship was to win the wager, once and for all. Once we kissed, this weird tension would evaporate, and we could move on.
I finished my coffee and placed the empty mug in the sink. I’d stayed up past midnight working on my personal statement, but I was nowhere near finished. It was like the pressure of thelooming deadline had clogged my brain, and I couldn’t get it to work properly.
Jones was traveling with the team, which meant I could work from home today. I was about to grab my laptop from my room when the front door slammed. My heart skipped in response.
It was sick. Practically Pavlovian. But that didn’t stop a sharp thrill from bolting through me when Vincent walked into the kitchen with a duffel slung over his shoulder.
“Morning, buttercup.” He dropped his bag on the floor and went straight for the fridge.
“Morning.” I waited a beat. He didn’t say anything else. “You’re back early. I wasn’t expecting you for another hour or two.”
“They made us wake up at the butt crack of dawn to beat traffic.” Vincent shut the fridge door without taking anything out and opened a nearby cabinet.
He wore his typical travel uniform: a Blackcastle zip-up jacket, matching track pants, and Zenith trainers. He looked a little tired, and his voice sounded a touch cooler than usual, but he was still infuriatingly gorgeous.
“What are you looking for?”
“Something to eat.” He rifled his way down the row of cabinets until he was inches away from me. “Breakfast at the hotel was shit, and I’m starving.”
“I haven’t done a grocery run yet,” I said. “But we have some baking ingredients. You can make pancakes.”
Vincent paused to stare at me. “Have you forgotten the story about my first and last pancake-making attempt? Here’s a refresher: Fire. Disaster. Humiliation.”
“Stop being dramatic.” I stepped around him and reached into one of the cabinets he’d bypassed. “You didn’t have me there to supervise you the first time. Pancakes aresupereasy. We canwhip up a batch in ten minutes.” I brandished a bag of gluten-free flour blend like it was a trophy.
Cooking together would be the perfect activity to kick off my renewed Win the Bet campaign. The way to a guy’s heart was his stomach, and his clearly needed filling.
His stomach, I meant.
He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “You can also burn down a kitchen in five minutes.”
“Stop letting fear hold you back. Do you want to eat, or do you want to starve because you haven’t healed your trauma from the pancake-induced fire?”
Vincent cocked an eyebrow. “Have you been reading self-help books again?”
“Please, no. They are so boring. I saw the fear quote spray painted on a wall somewhere.” I retrieved a large mixing bowl from beneath the sink, making sure to slow down my movements for maximum visual impact.
I couldn’t be too obvious about it or he’d catch on, but I did silently thank the gods I’d changed out of my ratty pajamas and into stretchy pants before Vincent got home.
This is for the bet.I straightened and faced him again. He was still leaning against the counter, his expression inscrutable.
There was something off about our interaction today. He was terser, less playful. He was probably just exhausted and upset about yesterday’s loss, but maybe he was mad I’d never texted him back.
The prospect made my skin prickle.
“I’m sorry I didn’t text you back last night,” I said. “I was working on my ISNA application and fell asleep.”
