Page 50 of Napkins and Other Distractions
Vincent chokes on his merlot. Deep red liquid erupts from his lips, lands on his shirt, and splashes onto the napkin pile he’s arranged. The fresh stain sprawls across his entire torso.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” I blather, grabbing a napkin from the bottom of his pile and standing to help. “It was a joke. Or supposed to be. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“It’s fine,” Vincent says, but his terse tone tells me it’s certainly not. I dab at the wine as he stares with wide eyes, and I wonder if there’s some incantation I can conjure to remove the stain immediately.
“Kent,” he says, but I’m too focused on removing the wine to answer. Holding my glass of water in one hand, I dip the napkin and attempt to clean Vincent’s shirt.
“Kent. You’re smoking.”
“No, never have. Nasty habit.”
“Your shirt. The candle.” He stands and pushes me off him, and yup, my shirt is indeed smoking. Right at my sternum. Heat builds near my chest, my eyes gape at the tiny billowing plume, and before I can speak, Vincent grabs the carafe of water and throws its entire contents at me.
“There.” He holds the empty carafe, assessing the damage.
“Not again,” I mumble.
“Again?”
“That’s the third fire I’ve started at a restaurant. Maybe I should stop eating out.”
Now we’re both on our feet—Vincent drenched in wine and me ready to rock a wet T-shirt contest. The giant lump in my throat prevents me from speaking.
Val appears, her tray piled with napkins, and assesses the scene. “Maybe we need more.”
Vincent’s gaze locks with mine and he asks, “Can we get our meals to go, please?”
I’m reasonably certain this is the end of anything between us, including a friendship. Once again, my awkwardness throws a giant roadblock into something positive. Our first-date do-over was humming right along, and then I had to be … me. Vincent picked me up, and the gesture seemed like a step in the right direction. But now, the thought of getting into his pristine car with a scorched, soaked shirt makes my stomach queasy.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, pulling out my mostly dry phone. “I’m going to call a car.”
“I have towels. In the trunk.”
“Oh.” I bite my lower lip, the whiskers of my beard scratchy on my tongue. “But, I thought … ”
“We have food.” Vincent holds up the takeout bag. “And I have a hot shower. Big enough for both of us.”
“Oh.”
“My mood, Kent,” he says. His tongue brushes his top lip before swinging down to coat the bottom one with saliva. “It’s simmering.”
He turns and pushes me up against the side of the restaurant. My heart races to life as the brick rubs against my back. And he’s suddenly upon me. Close. I watch his eyelashes dance, and then his closed lips tease mine.
“I haven’t brushed,” I whisper.
“You didn’t eat.”
Vincent kisses me. Soft for about two seconds, and then his tongue darts into my mouth. The taste of merlot swirls from his mouth and mixes with mine, and fuck, he’s making my body hum. Hands wrap around my waist, and I wonder if sucking my gut in will diminish my love handles. Corrine always said, “They’re called love handles. They’re meant for loving.” Right now, under the glow of the streetlight on a quiet Friday night, Vincent Manda seems to agree.
Breaking the kiss, he whispers, “Let’s go.”
He clasps my hand and tugs me toward his car. My head spins in the cool night. Under the moonlight, there’s an urgency in the way he drags me, and once again, I’m asking what I’ve gotten myself into?
CHAPTER 17
Vincent
“I’ll take the towels,” I say, opening the door to my condo. Kent hands me the oversized beach towels I store in my trunk for emergencies. On the short drive here, the only sound in my car’s cabin was “You Make Loving Fun.” Christine’s gorgeous alto crooning about the joy brought by someone’s gestures. My mind races about what Kent might do. To me. To make me happy. Tonight.
