16. Kent

SIXTEEN

"Gentleman." The kind server from our first date greets us with a wide grin. Does the poor woman ever have a night off?

"Val," Vincent says, his sexy smile illuminating the dimly lit room. He's wearing his standard uniform … a button-down shirt and slacks, all in solid, muted colors, and brown loafers. The small peek at Vincent's neck, where his shirt opens at the top, catches my eye, and yup, if it's not broken, don't fix it. Come to think of it, I've never seen him wear anything casual. Does he work out in business casual attire? The image of Vincent running on the treadmill in a tucked-in shirt and his dress shoes flashes in my head, and I chuckle.

Vincent and Val both turn toward my laughter.

"Oh, nothing, just um, hey, how are you?" I stammer, presenting my best smile as I attempt to keep the train on the tracks.

"Lovely," Val says, "and lovely to see you both again." She nods at Vincent.

A newfound energy envelops the table, distinct from the memories of our first time here. We have some history now. That first night. The supply closet. Dinner at Gillian's. Cuddling and kissing in his bed. But we're being prudent. We're friends having dinner. And working together. To prove Lear staff and students are more than the data might show. To save my job. But Vincent asked for a date. A first date do-over.

He orders the same bottle of wine from our first night, and I peruse the menu.

"So," Vincent says, "you and your wife are still friends?"

"Oh yeah, we talk all the time. Our romance withered, not our friendship."

His brow wrinkles, and the entire top of his shiny head attempts to join. Exes being close always causes some curiosity. "People crave drama, but the fact is, Corrine and I simply didn't fan the flames of our relationship. We let the sizzle fizzle."

Vincent sips his water, and his top lip peeks over the rim.

"She's remarried. To Charlie. That's her new husband. Happily married. I mean, as far as I know. We don't discuss their marriage in gory detail."

"Makes sense. And Gillian is an only child?"

"She has a brother …" I say. Vincent's eyelashes flutter, and my stomach swirls like autumn leaves dancing. "Sweetums."

"Your cat." A slight scrunching develops on Vincent's nose.

"He's a real baby. Maybe you'd like to meet him sometime?"

He blinks rapidly, and he pokes at the two napkins lined up on the table. His fingers grab the corner, tuck, push, and rub the edges. The movement is slight, almost unnoticeable.

"I'm not the biggest animal person," he says.

"Oh, Sweetums isn't an animal. He's my son."

He snickers. His laugh is small. Barely there. People without pets often underestimate the companionship and love between a domesticated animal and its owner. Sweetums is my rock. And he weighs as much as a small boulder. He's always there for a cuddle. Corrine is remarried, Gillian has her family to care for, and my obligations to my school community end at five most days. Sweetums needs me. For food mostly, but still.

"That's actually sweet," Vincent says, his lips curling. The light flickering from the candle casts a soft glow. His hazel eyes sparkle, and I remind myself we're here as friends. Or at least I think so.

"Gillian's grown. Heck, she has a family of her own. Sweetums keeps me company, especially on weekends. Lia and I have our standing date one Saturday each month. I get to be the fun one now. ‘Poppy time,' she calls it. Plus, now I focus on loving other people's children."

Vincent tilts his head slightly.

"At school. The kids. They're all mine."

"And they seem to return the affection," he says.

Val arrives with the wine and dribbles Vincent a taste. He sips, nods, and she pours for us both. The deep burgundy liquid splashes against our glasses, and I remind myself to be careful. Avoid spills.

"And what are we having tonight?" Val asks, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "The usual?"

"Yup," Vincent says and gives her a cool smile.

Scanning the menu, I order the Seoul Bowl with chicken. It seems like the least messy option.

"Lovely. I'll get that right into the kitchen for you," she says, and once again, we're alone.

"Do you always have the same thing?" I ask.

Pursing his lips, Vincent looks up, searching for an answer, nods, and says, "Yup. I pretty much do."

He takes a sip of wine, and without thinking, I blurt, "Well, maybe that will work in my favor for dessert."

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?