Vince

“Did you believe one date would seal the deal?” Davis asks me from the opposite side of the booth. “That’s lame even for you, Carson.”

We’re at a sports bar named For Puck’s Sake. It’s hockey themed. Columbus Blue Jackets jerseys and photos of the team are hung haphazardly between pucks and sticks and equipment on the walls.

We hate this place. We’ve always hated this place. Yet here we are.

“Did you believe eating here instead of McGreevy’s would make you forget how Gracie inadvertently insulted you?” I shoot back.

Davis pulls his eyes from the television to glare at me. “We’re talking about you being mad at Jackie-O for not sleeping with you on the first date, not Grace or McGreevy’s Pub.”

“I’m not mad that Jackie didn’t sleep with me, you asshole.” I told him the whole story, including the flowers from Jaundice that put the kibosh on any further contact between my and Jackie’s mouths that evening. “I’m not mad at all. I’m frustrated because we’re no longer friends.”

“Men and women can’t be friends.” Davis puts a fry into his mouth and watches the television again. It’s a replay OSU football game, which is about as out of place as the waitresses, who wear referee shirts with the shortest skirts I’ve ever seen.

The Bucks score a touchdown and the entire place, including Davis and me, erupts with cheers even though the game happened five years ago. We Ohio State fans bleed scarlet and gray.

“You need to up your game.” Davis takes a gulp from his tall, frosted mug. “Or else you’re going to backslide into friends with her and that’s all you’ll have left. On the bright side, you’ll be best man at her and Running Guy’s wedding.”

Is it pathetic that Davis’s statement drills into my chest like a hollow-point bullet? I take a drink, then another, from my own frosted mug. “His name’s Jaundice.”

Davis lets out a light chuckle and it’s the first one I’ve heard tonight—hell, in a while. He’s not jovial on his best day, but lately he’s been one grouchy son of a bitch. “I told you it was stupid to encourage her to go out with that guy. You’re Mister Safe Zone.”

Despite his earlier insults and unfortunate honesty, Davis is on my side. He has my back. I have his too, which is why I brought up Grace. If he continues avoiding her, I’ll have to bring up Hanna by name, then risk him Hulking out on me. If he needs it, though, I won’t hesitate. He did the same for me when I was sulking over Leslie.

“I’m listening,” I say, “but you have one minute to make your point before I start hitting below the belt.”

“That’s fair.” Davis swipes the napkin over his mouth and tosses it into his empty plastic food basket.

I lean in. I need advice and I’m desperate. Last night I drove home after leaving Jackie on her doorstep—unkissed, I might add. I watched From Dusk Till Dawn with blind eyes. I was staring through George and Quentin when I’m normally rapt. And whenever a vamp tore out someone’s throat, I mentally swapped the victim for J.T.

Immature, sure, but oh so satisfying.

“How’d you get Polly to sleep with you?” Davis asks.

“Why? Do you need pointers or something?” Shit. He did go out with Polly that night. Not that I care, but…yeah, okay, I care. It’s not that I want to date her, but since I know Davis isn’t interested in dating anyone long term, it seems unfair for him to sleep with her. And unfair to Grace, but that’s another can of night crawlers.

“No, dumbass. I want to know how you talked Polly into bed because that’s the same tactic you’re going to have to use with Jackie-O. Turn up the heat.”

“Polly and I didn’t do a lot of talking,” I mumble. I see what he’s getting at, though. I’m handling Jackie with kid gloves instead of pursuing her. I shake my head because using my wiles would never work on my coworker. “Jackie is nothing like Polly.”

“True. I bet Jackie is church-mouse quiet in bed, whereas Polly—”

“Geez, man, seriously?” I hold up a hand because cupping my palms over my ears would make me look like a ten-year-old.

Davis lets out a hearty laugh. “I’m fucking with you, Carson. I didn’t take Polly to bed. God, man. I have rules.”

He does? I’ve heard rumors of the “Davis packages” but I mostly thought he was kidding. I frown in consideration, and maybe a little in admiration.

“You have mad game, Vince.”

“Mad game? Who says that?” But he ignores me.

“For some reason you’re reserving using said mad game for the right time with your coworker. Keep in mind this other guy is playing the game and playing it hard. He’s not keeping any of his game in reserves. He’s going for Jackie-O full out.”

I think of the Château Sedacca and the home-cooked meal. Davis is right.

“So, what, I’m supposed to seduce her away from him?” I hear the fear-edged anger in my voice.

“You told Jackie you’d coach her. So coach her. She wants to know how to get the guy, and you’re just the guy to show her.”

“You’re missing the point. I don’t want her anywhere near this guy.”

“No, but in showing her the how-tos, she’ll be with you.” Davis points at me. “This is a numbers game, bro. The more time you spend with Jackie, the less of it she has to spend with Jaundice.”

I smile because he used my pet name for J.T.

“You know Jackie better than I do,” Davis continues, “but I’m guessing if she’s hot and heavy with you, she’s going to have a hard time getting hot and heavy with Blondie.”

Right. I nod, understanding his point. Actually, I’m excited by his suggestion—it’s a glimpse of possibility when I need it most. A vision of the cavalry riding over the hill when I’m neck deep in Middle Earth orcs.

“I showed my cards too early.” I snatched the kiss from her over delivered fast-food chicken rather than mounting a careful attack.

“Yep. Now she’s got you waiting in the wings for her to decide if this other dude has better game than you do. And by my count he’s flowers, two, to your flowers, zero.” Davis makes an “okay” symbol, then targets me through the circle made with his thumb and forefinger.

“Coach her,” I repeat.

“Until she’s screaming your name.” Davis lifts his mug, and I lift mine and tap “cheers.” We finish off our drinks and bang the glasses on the table, which is evidently the For Puck’s Sake Morse code for “Bring me the bill.” A waitress shows up, her hair in pigtails, socks to her knees, skirt showing a whole lot of thigh.

“Are you ready to cash out?” she asks Davis, smiling as she smacks her gum.

“God, yes. We hate this place.” He says it with a grin, which earns him a giggle from Pigtails. I shake my head in wonder at a man in his element. It’s hard to believe this is the same guy who was up to his eyeballs in forever at one point.

In less than sixty seconds, Davis hands Pigtails his credit card and she’s written her phone number on his hand.

I’m not surprised in the least.

She is a blonde.

Jacqueline

I pace to Vince’s office door for the third time before turning back toward my office and doing the loop one final time. No one’s in the building but us because it’s the ungodly hour of six A.M. Vince probably thinks he’s here alone, and most of the time he is. For the past few months, he’s been coming in early to enjoy the first quiet hour in the morning before the throngs bustle in chattering about the day’s top headlines.

I’m never in this early. My brain is fuzzy and my eyes are grainy, as my first cup of coffee hasn’t kicked in yet. I came in this early because I need to talk to him about this weekend—after I panicked like a complete ninny over a bouquet of flowers. I offered a generic send-off and shut the door on Vince’s handsome face for one reason: I worried that J.T. was watching from his apartment across the street for me to pick up the flowers. Kissing Vince would have put me in the hot seat.

I’m a coward.

I called Bethany the next morning for advice. My older, more sophisticated sister answered in hushed tones from a guy’s bathroom—a guy she’d picked up at a work mixer the night before.

“Are you going to see him again?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe. He’s really good in bed, but he snores.”

I’m torn between admiration and disgust for the way Bethany lives her life. We broached the topic of the flowers and Vince, and she reminded me of something very important.

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation, Jacqueline. You are doing nothing wrong. Kiss whoever you want to kiss. Befriend whoever you want to befriend. You’re waiting on the sex thing until you decide who to have it with, but there’s no rush. You’re in the driver’s seat, honey. I know that’s hard to accept after Lex locked you in the trunk….”

She was being metaphorical but it didn’t make her any less right. Bethany sat on her one- or two-night stand’s toilet lid and gave me the pep talk I needed. Lex made me believe I didn’t matter, further proving it when he didn’t adhere to the wedding vows that meant something—to me, at least.

But enough is enough. I need to let Vince know that I’m the one misbehaving and that he did everything right. He wanted to kiss me. I stopped that kiss from happening and regretted it all weekend. Vince deserves better. If he thinks I don’t care about him, he might call up one of those bimbos from his past. Unacceptable.

I knock on the door frame. Vince looks up, papers in both hands, glasses resting on the end of his nose. He tugs them off, his eyes glazed like he was mired in numbers or some other complicated data.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” he answers, setting the papers down and dropping the glasses onto the stack. Sexy with them on, sexy with them off. Double threat. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I wanted to talk to you. About Friday.”

The intake of breath and the stoic nod tell me I brought up a topic he’d rather ignore. But I was in the wrong and I’m willing to admit it. He stands from his desk.

“You don’t have to get up. I won’t be long. I wanted to say I’m sorry about the way our date ended. It was unforgivably rude not to focus on you and you alone.”

He slides his hands in his jeans pockets and swaggers over, and for the life of me I try to stay on point rather than admire the sexy way he ambles closer.

“Um…” Like that, I lose my train of thought. I find my way back clumsily. “I was on a date with you and I enjoyed myself. I didn’t mean to let a bouquet of daisies derail everything we—”

“Relax, Butler.” Vince stands in front of me now, looking down at me and smelling—Lord, heavenly. “I crossed a line with you.”

I blink. “Pardon?”

“I promised to coach you with J.T., and then I confused coaching with winning and it wasn’t fair to you.”

“You wanted to win me?” I ask, my voice fragile.

“Nah, it’s a testosterone thing.” Vince’s mouth slides into a casual smile. “Won’t happen again.”

That comment is like a punch to the solar plexus. I fight to pull in my next breath. Finally it comes.

“It won’t?”

“I don’t know what got into me.” He offers a shrug. “One second I was cheering you on, the next I was playing the role of jealous boyfriend. You don’t have to worry because I’m putting on my coaching hat again. The only kissing you’ll be doing with me will be training for what you and J.T. have going on.”

“You think I need kissing training?” This is too weird. So is parroting everything Vince says, but I can’t think of anything original to say.

“Everyone needs practice. Sounds like you and J.T. have a lot of potential. I don’t want you to miss out because I’m distracting you.” He lifts his hand like a high five. “Team Butler.”

I raise my hand, still unsure, and he slaps my palm.

“Team Butler!” he shouts, briefly linking our fingers before he lets me go. “Anyway, I have to get this month’s quarterly budget done, so I should get to it.” Positioned over his desk, he unbuttons his sleeves and rolls them to his elbows. I watch the reveal of the tats on his left arm, my mouth going dry. “When’s your next date?”

“Huh?”

“Date, Butler. With J.T. What is it? Lunch, dinner?”

“Oh, um. Coffee. Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Afternoon coffee?” Vince winces. “You’re backtracking.”

“No, I’m not. He’s busy.” But that sounds like an excuse.

“Don’t worry. I’ll help you turn coffee into dinner.”

“He can’t. He has to meet with a client at four.”

Vince slides his glasses on and sits at his desk again. He regards the papers but speaks to me. “He can and he will. I’m the coach; let me take care of the details.” He looks at me over the rims of his glasses, which is as erotic and distracting as the rest of him. “Deal?”

I want to say no, but I’m so thrown, I agree.

“Deal.”