2. Kent

TWO

Did Sweetums take his pill with the enthusiasm of a lion crammed into a tiny cat carrier? Yup. Did he gag, hack, and spit up all over me? Twice. Was I worried about being late? Of course. Did I arrive discombobulated? Obviously. But that head. That bald, shiny, perfect work surface of a noggin shakes me to my core.

Vincent's photo did not do him justice. Sure, he lost the facial hair, but he doesn't need it. I can see more of his face this way. His beautiful punim. His creamy skin. Perfection. The photo was sweet. Cute. Approaching handsome. In person? Vincent is scorching hot. As my daughter would say, all the flame and chili pepper emojis.

Theo, the prickly, but sweet custodian at school, assures me I'm a catch. He says anyone would be lucky to date me. For him, a certified grump, it's a massive compliment or a complete load of crap. Ruth, the PE teacher and my work wife (Corrine's words, not mine), told me guys might consider me a "daddy." My daughter, Gillian, is twenty-six and hasn't called me Daddy since she was in pigtails. "Dad" suffices just lovely now. Sweetums is my kitty baby, although sometimes our relationship borders more on warden and prisoner. Theo and Ruth are the only queer people I'm close with, and I'm beyond grateful for their counsel. Seeing Vincent in person, something springs alive I haven't felt in a long time. Something primal, deep, and it knocks me off center.

Agreeing not to talk about work is the blessing I need to get through this evening without melting into a puddle of despair. My life revolves around Lear Elementary. The kids. The staff. With our test scores nose-diving, the board mandated new software to collect and report on student data. The district is spending a fortune on the rollout, and I've got until spring break to see the implementation through. That will give us the rest of the school year to show growth with the new system. I see through Hopscotch's innocent name; this is anything but good news.

"To no talk of work," I say, lifting my glass. Vincent smiles, and his eyes sparkle. Maybe it's the prospect of being on a proper date with a man for the first time in, well, ever, but I really hope Vincent doesn't think I'm a complete dolt.

"None," he replies, crashing his glass against mine. The force of the impact shoots an eruption of wine onto my shirt.

Vincent's eyes open wide, and he immediately sets his glass down and grabs a napkin.

"Kent, I'm so sorry." And he's up, over, dabbing at my shirt.

"It's fine. Honestly, it was only a matter of time before I made a mess. You're simply helping me hurry things along."

I move my hand over his, and when my fingers brush his knuckles, a warmth sparks in my hand and travels up my arm. It's been less than twenty minutes, and we've made skin-to-skin contact. Add that to the hug, and this is more intimacy than I've had in over seven years. My center simmers, and I shake my head, attempting to shoo the dizziness away.

He doesn't stop, his determination clear as he vigorously tries to remove the stubborn spot, but even I know that red wine stains are no match for a cloth napkin.

"Vincent, it's okay. Really," I say and gently remove his hand, but keep ahold of his fingers. "I'm good."

He moves back to his seat, breaking our contact and biting his lower lip. And for the first time, I notice the way his eyelashes frame his eyes. Maybe it's the lack of hair on his head, but they're long and curl up, almost touching his eyebrows when he blinks. How soft would they be between my fingers? Crap. I'm staring at Vincent's exquisite eyelashes.

"Tell me something you love," I say, scrambling to redirect myself.

Vincent's eyes stare at the ceiling, searching. "Rumours."

"Gossip? About celebrities? Ummm, I remember when Demi Moore and Bruce Willis split. That's where my knowledge of celebrity news runs out."

"No, the album," he says with a laugh. "By Fleetwood Mac. I love it."

Nodding, I try to remember which songs are on that specific album. The CD might be in a crowded bin under my bed with other vestiges from college.

"A solid choice. And what do you do … for fun? Not work," I clarify.

"Hmmm." His eyes find the ceiling again, apparently his tell for deep thought. "Well, I love LEGO."

"Really? That's brilliant."

"Something about the organizing, counting, building, following directions … it calms me."

"I can see that," I say. "I haven't built a set in years. My granddaughter is more into … dramatics."

"You should do one sometime," he says, and my face immediately scrunches.

"I'm not the most … graceful. I'd lose a piece. Knock it over. Ruin it somehow."

Vincent's entire body seems to tense at the mention of a missing piece. Or maybe it's me.

"Listen, I need to tell you something," he says.

"Shoot." I wink and hope I don't appear an ass.

Vincent takes two quick breaths before speaking.

"I have OCD. Messes … They're one of my triggers. Crumbs. Dirt. Chaos in general."

My ribs grow tight, and I'm suddenly short of breath. The dizziness comes marching back, dragging along some lightheadedness for flavor. If you looked up "mess" in the dictionary, there'd be photos of me in various states of disarray. Slipping with a tray of food in the cafeteria. Tripping on my own feet and falling on my ass during the third-grade science fair. Stumbling over the wires on the stage at the holiday concert.

"But that's not it. Sometimes I get stuck. It's hard to explain." Vincent nudges the napkin sitting next to his plate. "But with certain tasks, it's like falling into a pit and not being able to climb out until the job is done."

"You like to finish what you start," I say, offering a smile.

"Yeah, you could say that." Pushing his shoulders back, Vincent takes a deep breath. "And while I'm confessing, contrary to my profile, I'm not really allergic to cats. Or dogs. Animals just scare me. Technically, the germs scare me. Generally speaking, animals are filthy," Vincent says, glancing in his lap, and somehow this moment of vulnerability makes him even sexier.

"Oh, well, that explains the wine on my shirt." I take my napkin, tuck it into my collar, and fan the fabric to cover the offending spot. "There, all gone." I smile. "Out of sight, out of mind."

"Thank you," he says, "I just want to be honest because, well, it's been an issue. For other men."

"Vincent, I don't know much about OCD, but you seem sweet, and nobody's perfect. Look at me." I motion toward my oversized napkin bib. "And, I'm not other men. And well, your SWISH photo didn't do you justice," I say, and Vincent's ears tinge pink. His lack of hair allows me to notice the gentle flush of his skin around his ears, enhancing his handsomeness.

"Oh. Um, thanks. You too, I mean, you look better than your photo."

"Thank you. My daughter took it and promised it was the best option. She tried to convince me to color my beard first, but this is me." My fingers run through my soft scruff. "I try to take care of myself, but you know, once you round fifty, everything gets so much harder to, well …" I pause and pat my stomach. "Take care of."

"I bet. I mean, I can imagine. I just turned forty in September, but I can already feel gravity becoming an adversary," he says. "And the beard. Don't change a thing."

A smile blossoms on my face. He likes the gray.

"Ah, forty, you're a baby. Forty is fabulous. I started discovering my true self when I hit forty. But fifty, fifty is the new thirty, or that's what I'm told. I'm fifty-two, by the way."

I search Vincent's face, hoping to catch a glimpse of his true thoughts on our age difference, but he only lifts the corners of his mouth as if I've just told him he's won a luxury Hawaiian vacation.

"If fifty is the new thirty, then forty is the new twenty. Which makes you a real daddy," he says playfully, twiddling his fingers on the napkin still resting on the table.

"I've been told." I smile through the nerves in my tummy. "Nobody's called me that in a very long time."

"Well, take it from me, it's hot," he says. Vincent raises his eyebrows, and my wine glass slips, but I catch it before adding to the mess already paying rent on my shirt.

Val comes and takes our order. Vincent gets a bulgogi taco salad, and, feeling adventurous, I order the Seoul Burrito. When the food arrives, Vincent plays a game with his napkin. He's doing some kind of origami. There's folding, unfolding, refolding, moving, dabbing, and then he repeats the whole thing. When he catches me staring, he smiles.

"I'm aiming for a clean spot each time I wipe, and well, I wipe often," he says with a chuckle. "You should've seen me before. Piles and piles of napkins." Vincent motions to an imaginary tall pile on the table. "A friend taught me this trick. Now, I get by with only one or two."

Vincent's candidness is a breath of fresh air. Transparency, especially about anything considered difficult to discuss, isn't easy. He's winning points for being so straightforward.

"Hey, that's smart. And you know, I'm thrilled you're comfortable being honest about it." My lips arrange into a smile at his openness.

"What I've learned," he says, carefully digging into his bulgogi taco salad, "it's just better for me to be frank from the get-go. Like this." He nods toward his food. "I don't like my food to touch on a plate. But a salad. In a bowl. Everything mixed and touching? Perfectly fine. So, when I'm out with a handsome man …" He blinks, and fuck, those eyelashes may be the death of me. "I stick to salads. My OCD can be annoying as hell, mostly to me, but it doesn't define me."

"Of course not."

Vincent takes a small bite, chews, and, before he even swallows, wipes what appears to be a clean mouth. He does his little folding ritual and starts over. There's something endearing about the methodical way he moves, and I have the urge to find out more about him.

"What about you?" he asks. "What red flags are hiding under that wine-stained shirt?"

"Which one would you like to hear about first?" Another smile spreads across my face. "It's been over seven years since I've been with someone. I haven't been with a man since high school, and that was only once," I say, omitting the gory details.

"And don't forget your cat," he offers.

I laugh, and my eyes focus on Vincent's plump lips. Does all the wiping make them any less soft? Would he ever let me find out?

"Yes, Sweetums can be a handful. But he's not all bad. I promise." I take a sip of wine, careful to make sure my lips make contact with the glass. "And neither am I."

"Definitely not." His hazel eyes lock with mine. Those fucking eyelashes. Vincent blinks, and they pull my focus like a magnet. There's a moment of silence. He seems to study me, and having him scrutinize me makes my skin tingle.

Val returns to clear our plates and asks, "Can I interest you in the dessert menu?"

Without taking his eyes off me, Vincent replies, "No, just the check, Val."

He does this half-smile thing, and my pulse revs as my heart pounds in my chest.

"Well, okay then, I'll get the check," she says, and Vincent's gaze falls to my lips.

"How about dessert back at my place?" he asks.

My eyes go wide and, en route to my lap, my hand smacks the handle of my fork, sending it sailing across the room until it crashes against the wall with a loud clang. On its journey, it fortunately misses the other guests and only serves to humiliate me.

A spinning breathlessness overtakes me. Back to his place? We just met. This was not on my bingo card for my first date in … forever. With his gentle smile and non-threatening demeanor, Vincent wouldn't hurt a fly. But that look in his eyes—a sparkling simmer intrigues me. What is he after? Catching my gaze, he raises his right eyebrow.

"Um, sure."

My head whirls and I grab my wallet from my pocket. What have I gotten myself into?