Page 54 of The Defender
Vincent’s mouth quirked. “I tell him that all the time, but he’s incapable of chilling. If he’s not working, he’s thinking about working. It’s an obsessive thing.” He glanced at me. “Sorry about what happened at dinner. I didn’t expect them to jump to the conclusion that we were dating.”
“Well, you brought me as your plus-one, and we accidentally matched outfits.” I forced a light tone. “It wasn’t that big of a jump, even though the idea of us dating is absurd.”
“Totally absurd.”
“Doesn’t even make sense.”
“Nope.”
I shifted in my seat. Vincent cleared his throat and raised the volume on the radio. Smooth jazz filled the pockets in our conversation.
Make a move.The business portion of the night was done. We were alone, I was dressed up, and we were so close, I got a lungful of his scent every time I inhaled. This was the perfect opportunity for me to try and win the bet—to prove that he really did want me and that he would break first.
I shifted positions again so the folds of my dress slipped aside, exposing my bare thigh. Vincent’s eyes flicked over for a brief second before they returned to the road. Other than that, he didn’t react at all.
I felt a sting of disappointment. My legs were one of my best features, but maybe they weren’t a great strategy when he was driving. I didn’t want us to crash, but I wanted him to…I don’t know, dosomething. Show he was affected, if only a little.
I changed tactics and leaned over to adjust the volume. My fingers grazed his forearm on my way back, the touch light but deliberate.
Once again, no reaction. His eyes remained fixed ahead.
The sting turned into a burn of frustration and something else I didn’t want to name. My attempts were subtle, but if he was interested, they would’ve elicited a twitch, a sigh—anything except cool, silent indifference.
“Have you made a decision about Blackcastle yet?” Vincent asked. His voice sounded a little tight.
He wanted to talk aboutwork? I gave up.
“Not yet.” I kept the grumble out of my reply. “I’m still weighing the pros and cons.”
Typically, candidates had one or two days to decide, but when I’d asked HR for more time, they’d shockingly granted it. They didn’t need a final answer from me until December, which was unusually generous.
I couldn’t decide whether that was a good or bad thing. Did they want me badly enough to work with my timeline, or did they not care enough to get a quick answer?
“Want to talk about it?” Vincent asked. “You were my moral support back there. I’m happy to return the favor.”
Sure. If only I could articulate what the pros and cons are.My practical needs versus my complicated feelings about Jones, my dad, and the nutrition team’s culture were all tangled up in a web that I didn’t have the energy to unravel right now.
“Thanks, but I’ll figure it out. I just need a little more time to think.” I stared out the window, my earlier angst about the bet replaced by a twinge of exhaustion. It’d been threatening rain all day, and the skies had finally opened up. Big droplets of water splattered against the window, blurring my view of the city. It was our fourth rainstorm in as many days. “God, I’m so tired of the rain. It’s weeks like these that I really miss San Diego.”
“I’ve never been. What was it like growing up there?” Vincent sounded genuinely curious.
“I loved it, for the most part. The weather is gorgeous, the beach is right there, and the people are pretty laid-back. But for a very long time, it was only Mom and me. She has more of a, shall we say,LA personality,so we didn’t quite fit in with our neighbors. It was a constant back and forth.” Growing up in San Diego was one thing; growing up with my mom was another.
“And she didn’t want to move to LA?”
“She did, but it’s a tough city for a single parent. I also think she liked how much smaller San Diego feels. Big fish in a little pond and all that.”
Vincent made a small noise in his throat. His expression was studiously neutral, but whenever we talked about my mom, the air would shift just a little, like he was taking great pains to rein in his thoughts.
“What about you?” I asked. “What was it like growing up in Paris?”
“It had its ups and downs. It’s a beautiful city. Great culture, great food, great public transport. But I didn’t speak fluent French when I moved there, and it was hard to make friends at first. It got better over time, but…” He trailed off for a moment. “I don’t know. I guess I never felt quite French enough.”
My heart tugged. It was hard to imagine Vincent feeling like an outsider anywhere. He was magnetic, so bright and full of life that he could draw even the loneliest shadows into his fold. It was impossible to walk into a room he was in and not be sucked into his orbit.
But as the past few weeks had proved, he was also human. He hadn’t been born famous, and he had the same doubts and fears as the rest of us.
“If it makes you feel better, I’ve lived in London for a year and a half, but I still call chips ‘fries’ and crisps ‘chips,’” I said. “And that’s just another dialect of English, not a whole new language.”
