Chapter 13 Brooklyn #2
“You should be. I don’t tell just anyone about my underwear-buying habits.”
“So what you’re saying is, I’m special.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Vincent sat on the edge of the table, his posture relaxed, but there was an undercurrent to his words. A slight intensity that lit up my nerves one by one like tiny campfires in the night.
My quippy response died halfway up my throat.
Without the game to distract me, I was agonizingly aware of his presence again. Of the electric thrum in the air and the hooded, almost sensual way his eyes held mine.
Don’t fall for it. It’s calculated.
Vincent had always been charming, even when he was being annoying, but the bet cast suspicion over all our interactions.
Was the glimmer of attraction genuine, or was he simply trying to prove a point?
He wanted me to admit I wanted him, but I couldn’t let him have the satisfaction, especially since it would never amount to anything.
I turned my head, breaking the spell. The little fires blinked out, and cool air rushed into my lungs once more.
A silent beat passed before Vincent slid off the table. “I’m going to get us some water.” Was it me, or did his voice sound slightly strained? “I’ll be right back.”
“Sounds good.”
He disappeared into the main arcade, and I finally allowed myself to fully exhale.
I checked my phone for new messages. I had texts from Scarlett and Carina congratulating me on the job offer, which I responded to with a quick thank-you.
Then, before I could stop myself, I clicked into Instagram and looked up Vincent’s private, personal profile.
We were mutuals, but we never interacted in the app.
Maybe there was something there that would help me win the bet.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t super active. His last upload was a photo from Paris taken months ago. There was nothing that gave me any new insight into who he was, what he liked, or how I could seduce him into kissing me first.
“Do you need a pool partner?”
I hastily closed out of the app and looked up. Not Vincent. I should’ve known from the voice alone, but I was so startled by the unexpected question that it took my brain a minute to catch up.
The newcomer looked like he was around my age. Auburn hair, hazel eyes, crooked smile. Cute.
“I’m already playing with someone,” I said apologetically. “He’s getting a drink, but he’s…” His accent suddenly clicked. I straightened, a thrill of recognition shooting through me. “Wait. Are you from the States?”
“Yep. La Jolla, born and raised.”
“No way! I’m from La Mesa.” La Jolla and La Mesa were both part of San Diego County.
“No shit? We’re practically neighbors.” His face lit up. “I’m Mason.”
“Brooklyn.” I grinned, my initial reserve falling away.
There were plenty of Americans in London, but I hadn’t met anyone from my hometown until now. There was something about running into a fellow San Diegan abroad that created an instant bond.
Mason and I struck up an easy conversation. He was a year older than me, worked in corporate marketing, and had moved to London a month ago. He lived nearby and was exploring the neighborhood when he’d stumbled upon the arcade.
“I got my ass kicked by a teenager at NBA Jam, so I figured I’d try my hand at pool,” he said sheepishly. “But if you already have a partner, I don’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not intruding. If we find a fourth person, maybe we can play doubles.”
I wasn’t sure how Vincent would feel about that, but—actually, where was Vincent anyway? It didn’t take that long to get water.
Mason smiled down at me. He really was handsome. I should’ve been flirting up a storm, but I couldn’t stop my thoughts from wandering toward a certain footballer.
“I’d love that,” he said. “I—”
“Love what?”
Deep. Smooth. Velvet edged with the tiniest hint of irritation.
My heartbeat quickened for a split second.
I turned and nearly walked straight into Vincent’s chest. He was standing so close I could see the faint twitch in his jaw as he eyed Mason with barely veiled suspicion.
“We were saying how we could play doubles.” I took one of the two water bottles from his hands. “This is Mason, by the way. Mason, this is Vincent.”
“Do you two know each other?” Vincent’s tone was light, but the near-imperceptible edge sharpened.
“We just met,” I said. “But it turns out we both grew up in the San Diego area. Isn’t that crazy?”
“So crazy.”
I narrowed my eyes at his flat response. Vincent’s default when meeting new people was guarded friendliness. Where was this hostility coming from?
“Hey, man.” Mason held out his hand. After a long pause, Vincent shook it. “Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”
“Vincent’s a footballer. He plays for Blackcastle,” I said when Vincent took too long to respond.
Seriously, what was wrong with him? He was never antagonistic unless the other person was an asshole, and Mason had been nothing but cordial so far.
“You’ve probably seen him on TV. Or in the ads plastered all over the Tube. ”
“Ah. That must be it.” Mason shrugged. “Sorry, I’m not a big soccer fan.”
Vincent’s jaw flexed again. I couldn’t tell whether it was because Mason didn’t know who he was or because he’d called football “soccer.”
“Don’t worry about it.” His smile lacked any semblance of warmth. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Mason, but we have to get back to our match.”
I was appalled by his curt dismissal, but Mason took it in stride. “Yeah, of course. And listen…” He rubbed the back of his neck, his sheepish expression returning. “I hope I’m not overstepping here, but are you two, uh, dating?”
“No.” My answer came swiftly, followed by a laugh. “We’re friends. Coworkers, really. And flatmates. Temporary flatmates.” The words spilled out in a jumble. “We’re a lot of things, but we’re definitely not dating.”
Mason’s smile widened. “Got it. In that case, do you want to exchange numbers? I don’t know anyone in London besides my coworkers, and they’re all thirty years older than me. It’d be nice to hang out with someone my age.”
I glanced at Vincent, who had moved toward the pool table. The muscles in his neck pulled taut as he racked the balls, his expression indifferent.
“Sure. It’s always good to have another friend in the city.” I returned my attention to Mason, annoyed at myself for even caring what Vincent thought. “Give me your phone.”
I entered my number and texted myself so I had his contact info too. We said goodbye, and he was gone.
Vincent didn’t wait a minute before he pounced. “Leave it to you to make a new friend in five minutes,” he drawled. The edge was still there, softer, but noticeably present.
“You were gone for more than five minutes, and you were so rude to him.” I crossed my arms. “What the hell was that anyway?”
“How was I rude? I shook his hand and said it was nice to meet him.”
“It’s not what you said. It’s the way you said it.”
“Are you policing my tone?”
“Are you being deliberately obtuse?”
Vincent straightened and faced me. His irritation was starkly obvious now, its severity highlighted by his frown and the tense set of his mouth. “Fine. I don’t like him. Happy? There’s something about him that feels off.”
“You met him for two minutes. He was literally so nice.”
“Ted Bundy was nice, and look how that turned out.”
“You’re ridiculous.” I’d reached the end of my patience, but I didn’t feel like arguing, so I switched topics instead. “What took you so long anyway? You could’ve just grabbed some water from the vending machines.”
“I did, but someone recognized me. It turned into a whole thing.” Vincent glanced at the doorway leading to the main arcade. It was only then that I noticed the group of teenagers watching us and whispering. “We should leave before they call more of their friends over.”
I didn’t argue.
Thankfully, no one ambushed him on our way out, and we rode the entire way home in silence.
We’d been getting along so well, but I should’ve known that wouldn’t last. Bet or no bet, Vincent and I were destined to be at odds.