Chapter 8 Vince #2
“Just Vince. And, I’m still recovering from the kiss to the chest,” I was so fucking serious about that. “You think my nervous system can handle reality TV?”
“Fine,” she landed on some kind of cooking show. “You just lay there and pretend you’re too tough for this.”
“I am.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m actively losing testosterone.”
She grinned. “You’re adorable.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“Madeline.”
“Vince.”
“Say adorable again and I’m cutting the pancakes.”
She leaned her head on my shoulder and whispered, “You’re adorable.”
I shook my head, but I didn’t move.
The room service arrived quickly, two full trays rolled in by Crow-trained staff who didn’t speak unless spoken to. One of them placed the silver domes on the bed side table, nodded once, and left. I handed her the tray with her pancakes first.
She clutched it like it was sacred.
“Do I get to rate the presentation?”
“You can do whatever you want, as long as you eat.”
She cut a bite slowly. “Oh my god,” she murmured with her mouth full. “I think I love you.”
I froze.
She blinked. Swallowed. “I meant the pancakes.”
“Sure you did.”
“I did! God, that was not the plan.”
I smirked and leaned over to steal a bite from her plate. I really liked her like this. Relaxed.
When she was finished she placed the tray down on the nightstand and turned to face me fully. She looked vulnerable.
“What?” I asked gently.
She studied my face. “You really never had a girlfriend before?”
I shook my head.
“Not once?”
“Nope.”
She reached up and ran her fingers through the side of my hair. “Good,” she whispered. “Because I’ve never done this either.”
After breakfast, I showed her the ensuite. Gave her a new toothbrush. She gave me a look when she saw a drawer full of them.
Leaning against the doorframe of the en suite bathroom and watched her brush her teeth.
It was ridiculous how captivated I was.
Her head tilted toward the mirror. She frowned slightly when her hair fell forward into her face, and I didn’t think twice before crossing the room and tucking it behind her ear. She met my eyes in the mirror.
That soft smile. Fuck.
“You okay?” I asked. Suddenly, I was so fucking nervous to hear her answer.
She nodded, then rinsed, wiped her mouth with a towel, and looked up at me fully. “Better than okay.”
“You didn’t sleep much.”
“I think I slept more than you.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I reached down and gently touched her wrist, dragging my thumb over her pulse. It was steady now.
She walked past me slowly, and called over her shoulder, “I’m claiming the remote.”
“You already did.”
She grinned. “Come back to bed. I want to finish that episode.”
I shook my head. “You’re serious about this show.”
“I nearly died,” she called from the bedroom. “You can’t argue with a girl who nearly died. That’s the rule.”
“That’s not a real rule.”
“It is now.”
After I brushed my teeth and walked back into the room. She was already on the bed. The shirt she wore had twisted at her hip, revealing a glimpse of the white lace.
“I’m not watching a baking competition,” I warned.
She patted the bed beside her. “You’re not. It’s the decorating challenge today.”
“Worse.”
“Better. People cry over frosting. It’s high stakes.”
I sat beside her, against the headboard, arms crossed loosely.
“Fine,” I muttered. “But I’m not emotionally investing.”
“That’s what they all say,” she whispered, flicking the volume up.
It wasn’t even five minutes before she leaned into me. Her head found my shoulder, and her hand landed on my thigh.
I didn’t move it.
“You’re warm,” she murmured.
“Good. Because you steal the blankets.”
“You drool.”
I turned my head. “I do not drool.”
“I’m just guessing, I was unconscious, remember?” she said so sweetly, only to frown slightly. “I’ve never slept beside a man before. You were the first.”
I turned more fully toward her.
“Was it okay?”
She looked surprised. “Are you asking if I felt safe?”
I nodded.
She exhaled slowly and pressed her hand firmly into my leg. “I’ve never felt safer in my life, Vince.”
I touched her jaw, turned her gently so I could see her eyes more clearly. Every hour with her stripped another layer off me I hadn’t even known I wore.
“You’re dangerous, Madeline Thorne,”
“I’m high maintenance. That’s different.”
I laughed under my breath, and she curled tighter into my side, lifting the remote.
“Now be quiet,” she said. “You’re interrupting very serious cookie judging.”
Didn’t take long for me to realise she was really watching this. Eyes locked on the screen like a strategist. Knees tucked up, she was speaking in commentary.
“They overmixed the dough,” she muttered.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means they’re screwed.”
“They’re decorating cookies.”
“They’re building edible sculptures,” she corrected. “And that guy’s using royal icing like it’s his first day.”
I looked at the screen. Looked at her. Then back again.
“I feel like I’m being indoctrinated,” I muttered. Because somewhere between complaining and listening, I’d started to care.
“You are.” She reached for a strawberry from the bowl, and kept watching like it was a high-stakes fight night. When one of the contestants dropped a tray, she gasped, hand slapping my thigh without thinking. Her touch had stopped startling me. I’d started craving it.
“He’s done for,” she whispered, shaking her head.
“You sound pleased.”
“Maybe a little.”
“You’re ruthless.”
“You’re in denial.”
“About what?”
“You care who wins.”
I scoffed. “I don’t.”
“Liar.”
I didn’t reply, because she’d caught me.
“You want the lady with the pixie cut to win,” she nudged my shoulder. “You like her color palette.”
“She’s efficient.”
“She’s your emotional support baker.”
“She’s precise,” I muttered. “And she doesn’t talk while piping.”
“Exactly.”
I gave her a sideways glare, but it didn’t stick. She was grinning too hard.
“Wanna bet on the winner?” she asked.
“What’s the wager?”
“If I win,” she said, leaning into my side, “you have to wear something I pick next time we go out.”
“That’s not happening.”
“It’s already happening. You just haven’t agreed to it yet.”
I tilted my head. “And if I win?”
She paused, chewing on the inside of her cheek.
“Fine,” she said. “If you win, I’ll stop calling you adorable.”
I raised a brow. “Completely?”
“Completely.”
“I want it in writing.”
She reached for my phone on the nightstand, opened the notes app, and typed it herself.
Madeline Thorne agrees to stop calling Vince Crow adorable if she loses cookie judging bet.
Dated. Signed with three pink heart emojis.
I took the phone, placed it down.
The show rolled into its final challenge, and we both leaned in. Her fingers stayed curled around my wrist. Mine drifted ran over her thigh under the covers.
Every now and then, she’d hum in disapproval or gasp dramatically, and I’d have to pretend it wasn’t doing something to me. When the judges announced the winner, she let out a loud gasp.
“No!”
I smirked. “I won.”
She turned to me slowly, narrowing her eyes. “You rigged this.”
“I don’t control baking television.”
“You absolutely bribed someone.”
“She piped clean lines under pressure. I admire efficiency.”
“Ugh.”
I grinned as she grabbed a pillow and whacked me with it.
“You’re the worst,” she muttered.
“Say it.”
“Never.”
“You lost the bet.”
She pouted. “You’re not even going to gloat?”
I considered it. Then leaned down, kissed her shoulder, and whispered, “Admit defeat, sweetheart.”
Her whole body flushed.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I hate that I lost.”
“I’ll accept that.”
She dropped the pillow. Then let herself fall back against the headboard with a sigh.
It was starting to get cold. I reached over the edge of the bed, grabbed the hoodie I’d tossed there earlier, and held it out to her. She looked at it. Then at me. Then slowly took it.
“I’m never giving this back,” she declared.
“I figured.”
“It smells like you.”
I swallowed. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“It’s a dangerous thing. Like I’ll start wearing it and forget it’s not mine.”
“It is yours.”
She blinked.
“You said I wouldn’t get it back. So I won’t ask.”
She slid the hoodie on over the oversized shirt she already wore. It swallowed her. Made her look like she belonged on this bed, in this room, in my life.
I reached out and pushed the hood gently down. She just stared at me.
“Vince.”
“Yeah?”
“I really like you.”
I was not expecting that. I reached for her again, tugged her back to me until she was half in my lap, and wrapped both arms around her like I never planned to let go.
For a moment, I let myself imagine keeping her here.
Spending the night again. Letting her fall asleep beside me instead of sending her away. I could almost taste the peace of it.
The thing was, she would’ve stayed. I could tell. But wanting and having were two different things, and I’d spent my life translating survival.
So instead, I stood, forcing myself to move first.
“Come on. I’ll take you home.”
She nodded and started to gather her things. She didn’t leave anything behind. We rode the elevator in silence.
I expected her to not want to get in. Apparently she had exposure therapy for it and was fine, that didn’t stop her hand from trembling.
She leaned slightly against the rail, arms folded over her chest. I stood beside her, hands in my pockets, trying not to think about how good she looked in my hoodie.
“So, are you driving or does Vincent Crow have a driver?” Her smile slowly dropped when she looked at me. “Everything okay?”
I nodded. “I have a car waiting. Unmarked. It’ll take you home.”
She frowned. “I thought you were taking me home?”
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. God, I did. I wanted to walk her to her front door, make sure she was safe. But I couldn’t. If someone saw that meant they could take a picture or open their mouth. And it meant it could reach Damius. I wouldn’t take that risk.
If he found out what she meant to me, it wouldn’t just be my problem. It would destroy her.
Her eyes searched mine. Slowly, she nodded to herself.
“You don’t want to be seen with me.”
“It’s not that,” I said.
“Then what is it?”
“It’s complicated.”
The words felt weak. Empty.
Her mouth curved, but not in a smile. “You think I don’t understand complicated?”
The elevator dinged. The doors opened to the marble lobby. She didn’t move. Neither did I.
“Are you going to walk out of the elevator, or is this your goodbye?”
Pure panicked rushed through me.
“It’s not goodbye.”
She waited.
“Just… message me,” I said finally. It sounded pathetic, even to me. “Please.”
She studied me, long enough to make it hurt. I could see the realization cross her face. He’s hiding me. And she was right. Every interaction we had. I made saw eyes weren’t on us.
If I was honest with myself, that dinner had been too public.
“Right,” she stared at me a moment longer than the doors began to close again, and she stepped out before they did.
No goodbye or telling me she would. Just that broken look on her face. Similar to the night I found her at the event.