Chapter 17 Brooklyn #2
“Fine. You want to know the reason?” He walked toward me, his movements precise and controlled, like a predator prowling toward its prey.
“The reason is because I couldn’t stop thinking about you while I was gone.
Then I come home to see you sitting there, doing nothing except existing, and I can’t fucking breathe.
” His voice was low and taut. “Maybe you were right. I am pissed at you because you can float through the kitchen, making pancakes and cracking jokes, while I’m using every goddamn ounce of willpower not to touch you.
That’s why I don’t want to be around you.
You’re killing me, and you don’t even know it. ”
He stepped forward with every word; I stepped back. Soon, I was pressed against the counter, trapped between cold tile and the searing heat of his body.
My mouth was so dry I could only scrounge up a whisper. “Then why’d you stay?”
“Because I can’t fucking say no to you if I tried.” The words ground through his teeth, stripped of their usual playfulness.
My heart slammed against my ribcage. The room tilted, and I had the curious sensation of free falling despite being rooted to the ground.
Vincent and I had circled each other for weeks, taunting, flirting, and at times genuinely connecting. We’d ended up here, teetering on the precipice of something new—and I was terrified.
He sounded sincere. His eyes pinned me to the spot, and he was so close I couldn’t breathe without inhaling him into my lungs.
But he didn’t kiss me. Despite the intensity of his speech, he kept a minuscule distance between us, just enough for my doubts to surface.
Did he mean what he said? Or was this another ploy to win?
“Is it really because of that, or is it because of the bet?”
Vincent stilled. “The bet,” he repeated, his voice flat.
I knew immediately I’d said the wrong thing. I tried to salvage the situation and somehow made it worse. “It’s a fair question.”
His expression iced over. “Not everything is about the bet, Brooklyn.”
He straightened and took a small step back. The tension fizzled like helium leaking out of a popped balloon.
“I’m not implying you’re a liar. I was—I mean I’m…” I faltered, wishing I were more eloquent. More certain. Simply more.
This always happened. Something good came along, and I’d find a way to ruin it. If I had a therapist, they’d probably call it self-sabotage.
I couldn’t help it. People liked the shiny, bubbly version of me, but if they saw what a mess I was on the inside, they’d leave. It was easier to keep them at arm’s length and to push them away first than to suffer the devastation of them abandoning me.
It was also easier to believe people had ulterior motives for softening me up. Especially Vincent. Especially given our circumstances. The alternative was too risky.
So why was I so crushed by our sudden distance?
“I just wanted to make sure you weren’t trying to emotionally manipulate me into kissing you.” I adopted a light tone, hoping it’d ease the sting of my words. “I’m not saying that’s you, but we’re both competitive. We both want to win. I just—I’d rather have a clear view of what’s happening.”
A muscle twitched in Vincent’s jaw. “I wouldn’t do that.”
He didn’t sound upset. He sounded…hurt.
The bubble of distrust collapsed inside me, replaced with shame. I opened my mouth, but before I could get an apology out, a sharp, acrid smell stung my nose.
Vincent and I both whipped our heads toward the stovetop, where the second batch of pancakes was burning to a crisp in the skillet.
“Oh, putain!” He reached for the handle.
My eyes widened. “Wait! Turn off the—”
Flames burst to life in the pan before he touched it. Billows of hazy gray smoke curled toward the ceiling, and the alarm shrieked into action.
“Shit!”
“Fuck!” This was followed by a stream of French curses I couldn’t decipher.
All thoughts of our bet vanished as we rushed to put out the fire before it spread. Vincent turned off the stove while I grabbed a lid from a nearby pot and tossed it at him. “Cover it!”
He caught it easily and slapped it over the pan. The flames hissed angrily against the metal, but they gradually petered out from the lack of oxygen.
Meanwhile, the alarm wailed on, relentless. My head pounded from the noise, and I was getting a little woozy from the smoke.
Vincent darted to the windows and cracked them open while I grabbed a placemat and flapped it uselessly against the sensor.
“You need to get closer!” he shouted. “I’ll get a chair.”
The kitchen stools were too unstable, but he returned a minute later with the desk chair from his room. He climbed on. I handed him the placemat, but it was too floppy to work. The smoke alarm continued to shriek like it was the end of the world.
“Try this!” I grabbed my notebook from the island and shoved it at him, desperate to make the noise stop. It was so shrill I felt my bones rattle.
My neighbor pounded on the wall and shouted something I couldn’t make out. The distant rumble of traffic trickled through the open windows. The smoke had cleared somewhat, but the entire flat reeked.
And amidst all this chaos, the doorbell rang. Once, twice, followed by a series of insistent knocks that were barely audible over the ruckus.
“Coming!” I yelled.
I left Vincent to take care of the alarm while I answered the door. It was either my landlord, who lived upstairs, or the fire brigade. Either way, it didn’t bode well for my security deposit.
I sneezed, my eyes watering. I was so distracted by the stench of smoke that I forgot to check the peephole. The security system beeped the way it did every time someone opened the door, and I remembered belatedly that Vincent’s intruder was still on the loose.
The chances of them showing up were slim, but…
I gripped the brass knob, ready to slam the door shut at the first sign of trouble. But the person on the other side wasn’t a stalker determined to kidnap Vincent, Misery-style.
No, it was worse.
It was my dad.
I blinked, certain I was hallucinating. His image didn’t waver. The gray hair, the bushy brows, the Blackcastle tracksuit—it was him to a tee.
“Dad?” I gaped at him. “What are you doing here?”
The last time he dropped by was over a year ago. I’d just moved in, and he’d showed up with a brand-new toolbox and toilet paper as housewarming gifts.
The smoke alarm’s shrieks came to a sudden, merciful stop.
My dad opened his mouth, but something behind me caught his eye. He froze, his concerned frown hardening into a glare. He looked like he’d swallowed a lemon whole.
I turned in time to see a shirtless Vincent pop out of the kitchen. “I finally got the alarm to—oh, shit.”
My stomach plummeted. My dismay matched the absolute horror on Vincent’s face.
Oh, no. Oh no, no, no. This was bad. Really bad.
I whirled to face my dad again. Dozens of excuses crowded my tongue, but they withered beneath the weight of his glare.
His face reddened as his eyes darted from me to Vincent and back again. When he finally spoke, his voice boomed loud enough to make me flinch.
“What the hell is going on here?”