Chapter 17 Brooklyn
brOOKLYN
I was a coward. I could admit it.
Instead of answering Vincent’s text last night or watching Bake Off, which would’ve inevitably made me think of him the entire time, I’d holed myself up in my room to work on my ISNA essay. That way, if he asked, I could say I’d been busy and hadn’t seen his text until the morning.
It wasn’t the most noble response to an innocent invitation. However, his suggestion had seemed far too intimate—us on the phone together for an hour, watching a show that’d become an inside joke between us while he made quippy observations in that velvety voice of his.
No, thank you. Didn’t happen, was never going to happen.
Thankfully, his absence gave me time to reset. I hadn’t been taking our bet seriously enough recently, and the best way to restore the status quo in our relationship was to win the wager, once and for all. Once we kissed, this weird tension would evaporate, and we could move on.
I finished my coffee and placed the empty mug in the sink. I’d stayed up past midnight working on my personal statement, but I was nowhere near finished. It was like the pressure of the looming deadline had clogged my brain, and I couldn’t get it to work properly.
Jones was traveling with the team, which meant I could work from home today. I was about to grab my laptop from my room when the front door slammed. My heart skipped in response.
It was sick. Practically Pavlovian. But that didn’t stop a sharp thrill from bolting through me when Vincent walked into the kitchen with a duffel slung over his shoulder.
“Morning, buttercup.” He dropped his bag on the floor and went straight for the fridge.
“Morning.” I waited a beat. He didn’t say anything else. “You’re back early. I wasn’t expecting you for another hour or two.”
“They made us wake up at the butt crack of dawn to beat traffic.” Vincent shut the fridge door without taking anything out and opened a nearby cabinet.
He wore his typical travel uniform: a Blackcastle zip-up jacket, matching track pants, and Zenith trainers. He looked a little tired, and his voice sounded a touch cooler than usual, but he was still infuriatingly gorgeous.
“What are you looking for?”
“Something to eat.” He rifled his way down the row of cabinets until he was inches away from me. “Breakfast at the hotel was shit, and I’m starving.”
“I haven’t done a grocery run yet,” I said. “But we have some baking ingredients. You can make pancakes.”
Vincent paused to stare at me. “Have you forgotten the story about my first and last pancake-making attempt? Here’s a refresher: Fire. Disaster. Humiliation.”
“Stop being dramatic.” I stepped around him and reached into one of the cabinets he’d bypassed. “You didn’t have me there to supervise you the first time. Pancakes are super easy. We can whip up a batch in ten minutes.” I brandished a bag of gluten-free flour blend like it was a trophy.
Cooking together would be the perfect activity to kick off my renewed Win the Bet campaign. The way to a guy’s heart was his stomach, and his clearly needed filling.
His stomach, I meant.
He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “You can also burn down a kitchen in five minutes.”
“Stop letting fear hold you back. Do you want to eat, or do you want to starve because you haven’t healed your trauma from the pancake-induced fire?”
Vincent cocked an eyebrow. “Have you been reading self-help books again?”
“Please, no. They are so boring. I saw the fear quote spray painted on a wall somewhere.” I retrieved a large mixing bowl from beneath the sink, making sure to slow down my movements for maximum visual impact.
I couldn’t be too obvious about it or he’d catch on, but I did silently thank the gods I’d changed out of my ratty pajamas and into stretchy pants before Vincent got home.
This is for the bet. I straightened and faced him again. He was still leaning against the counter, his expression inscrutable.
There was something off about our interaction today. He was terser, less playful. He was probably just exhausted and upset about yesterday’s loss, but maybe he was mad I’d never texted him back.
The prospect made my skin prickle.
“I’m sorry I didn’t text you back last night,” I said. “I was working on my ISNA application and fell asleep.”
“It’s okay.”
“How was the episode?”
“Good.”
Okay then. I ignored the sudden chasm in my stomach and put on a bright smile. “Perfect. In the spirit of Bake Off, let’s make pancakes. The healthy version,” I amended. “You can’t go through life scared of a breakfast item.”
Vincent slanted a glance in my direction. “I’m not scared of pancakes. I’ll eat them. I just don’t want to make them.” But he didn’t argue when I sent him to fetch the rest of the ingredients. I was using the recipe for my favorite protein pancakes, which were healthier than the regular stuff.
“Perfect. Let’s mix it all together,” I said when we had everything lined up on the counter.
“You know we could’ve gone down to the breakfast place around the corner and saved ourselves the trouble?”
“That would’ve taken at least an hour. This’ll take minutes.”
Vincent shook his head. Despite his grumbling, he’d removed his jacket and was mixing the ingredients with surprising dexterity. His arm muscles flexed with each movement, and I had to avert my eyes before he caught me staring.
I busied myself with the skillet, cleaning it and heating it over medium heat. A cloud of warmth gusted over my face.
“Done,” he said.
“Good.” I cleared my throat. “Now add the coconut oil to the pan. Once it’s hot, swirl it around to coat the bottom…”
He worked in silence, his movements deft and graceful despite his insistence that he wasn’t good in the kitchen. Pancakes were easy, but there was something mesmerizing about the way he worked.
“Then you spoon the batter into the skillet like this.” I stepped in to demonstrate. “Don’t use more than a quarter cup per pancake.”
“Got it.” Vincent’s voice rumbled close to my ear.
Tingles cascaded down my spine, and I focused intently on the stove instead of the warm, solid presence at my back. Despite his reassurance, I ladled out the next two pancakes myself while he watched.
The only sounds in the kitchen were the soft exhales of our breaths and the sizzle of batter in the pan. He was so close that, if I turned my head an inch, his skin would graze mine.
“Brooklyn.” He reached around me and grasped my wrist, his hold gentle but firm. “I’ve got it.”
The tingles spread up my arms.
I quickly relinquished the wooden spatula to him and stepped aside. “Great. Cook them for, um, two to three minutes on each side or until small bubbles appear.”
Vincent made a noise of acknowledgment. While heat scorched my face, he appeared coolly unperturbed by our proximity.
This was supposed to be my attempt at winning the bet, but I couldn’t remember why, exactly, I’d chosen this stupid strategy. I should’ve stuck with the basics and worn my football shirt again.
He finished the first batch and moved them onto a plate.
I tested out a bite. “Delicious. See? You can do this without a visit from the firefighters.”
A smirk flickered over his mouth, but he didn’t respond as he started the next batch of pancakes.
My smile faded. Something was definitely off. He hadn’t tried to flirt with me, he was barely holding up his end of the conversation, and although he’d stayed to make the pancakes, there was an aloofness to him that made the pit in my stomach widen.
I was so used to his warmth that I hadn’t realized how much I’d miss it when it was gone.
“I really was working on my application last night,” I said, trying to gauge his reaction. “I put my phone away so I could focus.”
“You said that already.”
“Sure.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “But you seem like you’re mad at me, so I want to make sure it isn’t because I didn’t text you back.”
Vincent stilled. He looked up from the stove, his face filled with genuine surprise. “What makes you think I’m mad at you?”
“Just…your vibes.” It sounded stupid when I said it out loud, but my vibe checker had never steered me wrong.
He set the spatula down. “I’m not mad at you, but I am a little insulted you think I’d get upset over one unanswered text.”
I desperately regretted bringing up the text again, but it was too late to turn back. I forged ahead. “Okay. You’re not mad, but you have to admit this is a little weird.” I gestured between us. “We usually have a much easier time talking to each other.”
His jaw twitched. “That’s because I don’t want to be around you right now.”
I’d goaded him into it, but his words still sent me reeling. The air evacuated from my chest, and I had to breathe through the sudden pressure stinging my throat.
One. Two. Three.
I pressed my lips together and forced a tight smile. “But you say you’re not mad at me.”
It didn’t make sense. Bet aside, I shouldn’t care this much about what Vincent thought of me. If he didn’t want to hang out anymore, fine. We’d always existed on the periphery of each other’s lives, drawn together more by circumstance than by choice.
But did that still hold true? I’d chosen to let him live here, and he’d chosen to move in.
Our texts, our talks, the Zenith dinner and the arcade—all choices we’d made to spend time together beyond what was necessary.
Some of it was to further our chances at winning the bet, but not all of it was. And that scared the hell out of me.
Vincent let out a small, humorless laugh. “That’s not why I don’t want to be around you.”
“Then what’s the reason? Either tell me, or leave,” I snapped.
I was tired and stressed and confused. My eyes burned for no discernible reason. I didn’t have the energy to play Guess What Vincent’s Talking About anymore.