Chapter 3 Vincent
THREE
VINCENT
“I don’t understand why you think he’d be a good fit for me.”
“I swear, he’s not usually like that.” Jacklyn’s said some version of that sentence at least six times in the last hour.
I still don’t believe her. I’ll buy that he had a rough day and was in a particularly bad mood, but that only covers half of it.
I suspect the rest is his usual personality.
“Maybe you could give him a second chance?”
“Did he ask for one?” I highly doubt that’s even possible. The way he walked out of the theater doesn’t scream please give me another chance. If anything, it’s the exact opposite.
“Vee.” Jacklyn uses that tone, the one that tells me she’s grown tired of this back and forth. I don’t blame her. I sent her a string of text messages at the end of the night, questioning her taste in friends and her opinion of me.
“Jackie. I’m serious. You know I’ll give anyone a second chance, but I’m not doing anything if he’s not interested.
” I wish he was. That man is gorgeous. Physically, he’s my dream, with his dark hair and deep brown eyes.
Add in that polished business professional bit, and I’m ready to take him home and strip him naked.
But he seems less into me. I’m well aware I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.
For some guys, my sense of style and use of makeup is too much.
It’s me, though, and I’m unwilling to change for any man.
I’ve tried that. It never works. So if he’s going to be upset by my duck rainboots or liberal use of lip gloss, then I’m better off without him.
“You two would be so good together if you could pull your heads out of your respective asses.”
I snort. “What did I do?”
“Vee, you tripped him.”
Nope, not having this argument. “He fell.” I prop myself up on the window ledge of my apartment and stare out at the street, watching the front door of the coffee shop.
I don’t know what happened that day, but it wasn’t my fault.
I’ll share the blame, maybe even fifty-fifty, but that’s as high as I’m willing to go.
When the door to the café opens, my heart leaps into my throat, hoping I’ll catch a glimpse of Beau.
I should write the whole thing off, after all, there are plenty of fish in the sea, and I’d rather be fishing for one who wants my company.
Or something like that, I’ve never actually been fishing.
My galoshes are purely for fashion purposes.
A man walks out, his blond hair immediately catching my attention. Nope, not Beau.
After that night, I came home and gave myself exactly twenty-four hours of wallowing before I moved on. That time is up, but I still can’t erase his scowling face from my mind.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I suggest. This topic is done. “Have you started the next book club read yet?”
“Started? Vee, the meeting is in five days, and that book is nearly a thousand pages.” I may be a bit of a procrastinator. But I always get it done in time. Mostly. Sometimes I flip ahead and finish the last chapter, then go back after the fact.
“So you’re saying I’ve got plenty of time.”
She sighs in a way only Jaclyn can. “What are you doing tonight?” she asks.
“Apparently reading.” I really should if I’m going to participate in this month’s discussion.
I can get away with skipping a few chapters, but not the whole book.
Even my years of practice in school won’t let me BS my way through the entire thing.
Sadly, CliffsNotes aren’t made for popular fiction.
Though someone should do that, they’d make a killing.
“Let’s go to Above Board. Play a game and blow off some steam.”
It’s tempting. Our local tabletop game café and bar is one of my favorite places, and Jaclyn is a worthy, if sometimes underhanded, foe. “Pass. I’ve got some work to catch up on.”
It’s at least partly true. I’m a bit behind on a few of my client projects. Nothing concerning but staying in tonight and getting caught up is the mature, responsible thing to do.
“Suit yourself. See you at book club?”
“Yep,” I say before ending the call. I stay in my spot for too long, ignoring both my work and my reading in favor of people watching.
It can’t be called stalking if I never catch sight of my target.
There’s something about him that I can’t shake.
Until I’m able to scratch that itch, something tells me I’ll still be thinking of Beau.
BEAU
On Tuesdays, I take my lunch hour at Lobelia. It’s the only day I make a special point of leaving my desk. Otherwise, I either eat what’s being ordered in for the office or bring food from home. Usually, while catching up on emails.
It’s not a great habit, so I picked a day to be my no-work lunch. That means taking my tablet to the café and catching up on the news while enjoying a light lunch. It has the added benefit of being somewhere that doesn’t attract people from my office, so I'm not interrupted.
At the counter, I ordered a chicken salad sandwich and a caramel latte before grabbing a table.
The place is busy, as always, so there are very few tables available.
The only empty one has enough seats for four people.
I feel bad taking up that much room, but there’s nothing else free.
I decide to put my coat down on one of the chairs, marking it as mine, while I wait for my order. If a smaller table opens up, I’ll move.
When they call my name, I grab my order and sit down.
Settled, I put my headphones in and pull up one of my online newspapers, navigating to the finance section.
It’s probably iffy on whether this counts as not working, but I find it relaxing.
Plus, it’s not something I get to do every day.
My commute is spent listening to podcasts, since reading on the train makes me motion sick.
Time passes quickly as I read, slowly working through my lunch and coffee. It’s only when I notice someone standing in front of me that I look up.
“Can I sit here?” It’s Vee. Vincent. Instantly, the calm I felt a minute ago dissipates.
“No.” I’m not into sharing, and I don’t want to chat. This is my time. It’s so rare for me to get it that I guard it with my life. In thirty minutes, I’ll be back at my desk responding to the every need of three self-important men. Is it so much to ask to enjoy an hour to myself?
“All the other tables are taken. I’m not going to talk to you, just work on the other side.” He motions toward the chair catty-corner from my position.
“Wait for a table to open up.” He sighs, and I can’t help but notice his shiny lips.
I wonder if that’s the same bubblegum lip gloss Jaclyn mentioned in her text.
Does bubblegum refer to a color or a flavor?
My guess is color based on the hue of his lips, but I wonder if it’s also flavored?
Or, maybe he has multiple different flavors?
“Wait.” I can’t believe I’m doing this. “You can sit. But”—I stress the word—“no talking.”
He makes a locking his lips motion with his thumb and pointer finger before pulling out a chair and sitting down.
I go back to my reading. Or at least I try.
I can’t stop watching him as he pulls items out of his bag.
His laptop is covered in so many stickers that the silver case is barely visible.
It’s a mix of LGBTQIA2S+ pieces in various rainbow colors and capybaras.
Or at least I think those are capybaras.
I snap my head up when the barista calls his name, my gaze following him as he gets up to grab his drink from the counter.
When he turns back around, I look away quickly, refocusing on my article about historical market trends.
As I finish the article, I look up to see that Vincent hasn’t returned to the table.
I can’t help but scan the room for him. He can’t have gone far since his computer and bag are still here.
I find him at the counter, talking to the barista because, of course, he is. He’s the type to find something to talk about with everyone. I bet he could talk to rocks and think the conversation is interesting. The barista laughs, loud enough that several patrons turn and give them a look.
When he finally returns, he sits down without a word and resumes whatever he was doing on his computer.
I mostly stare at my screen, not bothering to open a new article, too distracted by the occasional tapping of his mouse.
It’s not that loud, especially with my headphones in, but I feel every touch vibrating through my body.
I can’t even describe what’s so annoying about it. It just…is.
My alarm buzzes on my phone, my warning that it’s time to head back to the office. He looks up at me, but he doesn’t say a word.
I stuff my things back into my messenger bag.
“Bye,” he says as I walk away, “have a great day.”
I don’t know what possesses me, but I say, “Bye,” back as I walk past him, even giving him a quick wave.
I didn’t intend to speak to him. It’s rude to ask to join someone, especially someone who has the I don’t want to talk to anyone look.
The combination of headphones and a book—even in e-reader form—is a clear sign.
Back in the office, I shake off my perturbation. I don’t feel the same sense of ease I usually feel after my Tuesday lunches. Instead, I’m agitated. And…something I can’t quite put my finger on. Stupid Jacklyn. This is all her fault.