Night Shift (Daydreamers Book 1)
Chapter 8

I’m absolutely fucked, because Vincent is even more beautiful than I remember.

It’s not fair. None of it is. Not the dark, disheveled hair. Not the warm brown eyes. Not the bright-white Clement Athletics T-shirt that’s doing wonderful things for his sun-kissed skin and sculpted arms. He’s still wearing that black brace around his left wrist. I wonder if he has tan lines from it. That thought triggers an avalanche of very inappropriate musings about where else Vincent might have tan lines, and if he’ll show me them if I ask nicely.

Oh, I am in so much trouble.

“You’re late,” I blurt, frustrated with myself and him and also the universe for throwing me into Vincent’s orbit with a romance novel in my hands for the second time in as many weeks.

“My lab ran longer than it was supposed to.”

That’s all he says. No apology, no further explanation. This is the same proud motherfucker who came into the library two weeks ago with a stick up his ass, so I don’t know why I expected him to be any better behaved now.

I arch an eyebrow. “Your lab?”

“I can show you my schedule, if you don’t believe me.”

There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, and it makes me unspeakably furious. I’ve been sitting here for almost an hour because he needs an English tutor—and because I’m an idiot who thought today could go one of two ways: either Vincent would show up and disappoint me, allowing me to write off whatever magic happened at the library as a result of my own loneliness and one very smutty novel, or Vincent would show up and realize he wanted me to be more than his tutor. But instead, it seems the most realistic—and disappointing—order of events will happen. He’s going to pay me for my completely nonsexual services, and then we’re going to call it a day and go our separate ways because he’s a Division I basketball player and I am a girl who spends an alarming percentage of her waking life buried in books.

I sit straighter in my seat, suddenly very aware of my warm face and how far my denim shorts have ridden up my thighs.

“It’s fine,” I say, even though it isn’t. “Can we get started?”

I motion toward the empty chair opposite mine, but Vincent doesn’t budge. There’s a little wrinkle between his eyebrows as he watches me stuff The Duke’s Design into my backpack and tug at the hem of my shorts with an indignant sigh. He looks unsettled.

“What are you drinking?” he asks.

I lift my cup and shake it so he can hear the ice rattle. “It was a cold brew.”

“You want another one?”

I’ve probably had enough caffeine, since I’m already on edge and cranky, but I’m feeling petty. “If you’re offering, then sure.”

Vincent nods his head once, like a soldier saluting his captain, before he drops his backpack to the floor next to the chair opposite mine and marches up to the counter. There’s no line. It’s quiet enough in here that I can hear him tell the barista his order. Our order.

Stop it, I tell myself. We are not a unit.

I tear my eyes off Vincent. As it turns out, I’m not the only one in Starbucks who’s watching him: there are two girls at a table across the coffee shop, a group of boys lounging on a bench against the window, a lone older woman—probably a professor—hunched over her laptop. They’re all looking. Even the other baristas are leaning forward attentively, just in case Clement’s star basketball player needs a chocolate croissant, pronto. And I can’t blame any of them. Vincent is devastatingly handsome and carries himself with a magnetic kind of confidence. It’s hard not to stare.

I wish he asked me here just to see me again. Not because he wanted me for my English literature expertise but because he genuinely wanted to spend time with me and get to know me. And that realization hurts, so I cram it down and cling to my pettiness like a life raft.

Several pairs of eyes stay locked on Vincent as he heads back to my corner of the coffee shop, an enormous plastic cup in each hand. He sets one of them down in front of me. It’s definitely a venti. I think this is his attempt at an apology. I gape at him as he settles into the armchair across from me, his too-long legs crowding mine under the table between us.

He sighs. “What’s wrong with it?”

“This is—this is way too much coffee.”

“You don’t have to drink it all.”

“I don’t think I could. I’d be a mess if I drank this much coffee.”

“I like you when you’re a mess,” Vincent replies without blinking.

The blunt reminder of what we did two weeks ago hits me like a bolt of lightning to the chest.

My face goes bright red. The flicker of satisfaction in Vincent’s eyes tells me he was banking on it. And maybe he just wants to toy with me for his own enjoyment, but there’s an endearing twinkle in his eyes that makes me feel like he wants me to be in on the joke with him.

I’ve spent two weeks trying to convince myself that what happened between us was nothing, and that Vincent isn’t to be trusted or daydreamed about. But when he’s here, in front of me, I have to admit that he’s not exactly the stranger or the villain I’ve made him out to be in my head. He’s the same boy I met in the library—quick-witted, too proud to apologize or ask for help without being a smart-ass, and far too much fun to flirt with.

Except he didn’t bring me here for that. He brought me here to tutor him.

So how fucking dare he flirt with me?

I take a gulp of my (free) ice-cold coffee and clear my throat. “What do you need help with? That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Because you’re bad with your words.”

Vincent’s bravado falters. I refuse to feel guilty about it.

Thankfully, the insult seems to flick a switch in him. Vincent clears his throat and reaches for his backpack, suddenly all business. “I have to write an in-class essay next week on this tiger poem”—his biceps flex against his sleeves, but I absolutely do not stare—“and honest to God, I’m lost. I told you I suck at poetry. And I figured, you know, you’re brilliant.”

“Obviously,” I murmur into my cold brew.

His lips twitch. “And humble about it. Which is why you’re going to help me figure out what the fuck this Blake guy was trying to say.”

Vincent pulls out a book, flips it open to a dog-eared page, and passes it to me. I put down my coffee and wipe my damp palms on my shorts, eager for something to do and something to distract me from the boy across the table. It appears our subject matter for the day is a William Blake poem—arguably his most famous.

“Oh,” I say, “I know this one. I’ve gone over this in, like, four different classes.”

“Of course you have.”

“It’s a classic. I had to memorize it my sophomore year of high school. Tyger Tyger, burning bright—”

Vincent shifts in his chair. The leather creaks under him. I’m suddenly and violently reminded of the fact that the last time I read poetry aloud to him, we mauled each other.

“—and, you know, the rest of it.”

“Right,” he says. “Give me your translation, Holiday.”

There it is again—my last name. He’s used it twice now, and I can’t decide if I like it or if I want to grab him by the front of his shirt and demand he stop with the nicknames. I tuck my hair behind my ears and scoot forward in my seat. When my knee bumps Vincent’s, I immediately angle my legs to one side and pretend nothing happened.

“So,” I begin, clearing my throat, “Blake published two companion collections: Songs of Innocence and then, a few years later, Songs of Experience. Have you covered any of his other work in your class?”

“We read the child labor one, I think.”

I snort. “It’s called ‘The Chimney Sweeper.’ That poem has two parts: one in Songs of Innocence and another in Songs of Experience. Blake was really interested in dichotomies—good and evil, heaven and hell—so he did a lot of companion pieces across the two collections. This one”—I tap the page—“has a sister poem in Songs of Innocence called ‘The Lamb.’”

Vincent nods. “This one’s about violence, and the other one is about peace?”

“In essence, yes. But Blake’s not just contrasting two animals. If you look at the way he’s framing it and how he’s using repetitive questions, it’s more than just setting up a dichotomy.” I open my mouth to start reading, then stop and press my lips together. I’m suddenly self-conscious about my own voice—and not entirely sure if I’ll make it through the poem without combusting. So, I shove the book at Vincent and say, “Read the first stanza for me.”

It comes out more brusque and demanding than I meant it to, but he doesn’t even flinch. Vincent dutifully takes the book from my hand, flips it around, and starts to read the poem aloud.

I immediately regret asking.