“Yes, wanna break? I have a few emails to catch up on, but I can be ready in half an hour if that works for you,” I offer.
“Sounds good. I’m going to run and grab something. A buddy told me about this great Jewish deli—”
“Schmear and Far. The best bagels in existence. Apologies to New York City, but it’s my favorite,” I say. “They smoke their own lox, a few varieties, but the pastrami lox is something everyone needs to experience at least once.”
My mouth waters, thinking about the perfectly smoked fish, the edges peppered with spices that mix with the lox to create a sandwich anointed by God.
“Kent,” Vincent says, the smell of bagels and fish still swirling in my head. “Would you like to come? Or I can grab you something?”
I grip my hands together, my mouth suddenly as dry as stale matzoh.
“Vincent, listen. What happened before break … um, twice. We need to cool our jets. I need this”—I point to his laptop, the folders, papers, all of it—“to work. Without a solution to Lear’s toppling scores, it’s likely the board won’t renew my contract.”
“Kent, I asked you if you wanted a sandwich, not to elope.”
A chuckle escapes my lips, and Vincent’s hazel eyes scan me. His eyelashes dance with each blink, and the hunger in my stomach radiates outward.
“It’s important to me, too. The project’s success.”
“I’m sure it is,” I say, and screw it, I’m starving, and the frozen burrito in my bag cannot compete with a bagel and fixings from Schmear and Far.
“You know what? You’re right. Clearly, the universe wants me to enjoy pastrami lox. Can we bring it back here so I can catch up on those emails?”
“Of course,” he says, his hand resting on my back, and why’d he have to go and touch me like that?
“Let’s go.” I grab my coat and head for the office door.
In his passenger seat, I’m instantly taken aback at how neat Vincent’s car is. It doesn’t have the new car smell, but the pristine shine on everything makes me wonder how long he’s had it. He pushes the ignition, and the dash comes to life with lights and beeps. The cab fills with guitar plucking from every direction. When the male voice interrupts, singing about being down a time or two, Vincent rushes to lower the volume.
“You really love Fleetwood Mac.”
“Rumours. Yes.”
“Pardon.”
“I mean, yes, I like the band,” he says, clicking his seatbelt, “but for me, it’s really all about this one album.”
“It’s definitely a classic. I mean, I was a kid when it came out, and I remember it fondly even then. But you’re younger than me. You weren’t even born. Why this album?”
“My parents loved the band and when I heard this record as a child, something stuck. The guitars. The harmonies. The layers. Everything just works together perfectly. Nothing is out of place.”
The napkins. The teeth brushing. Vincent’s propensity toward order means we’d never work, anyway. But maybe, if I can temper my heart, we can be friends.
“Well, turn it up.”
“You don’t mind?”
“I insist.”
I glance over, and he’s smiling. He thumbs a button on his steering wheel, and the music crescendos, overtaking our voices, and Vincent’s face relaxes. Once again, I want to reach over and grab him. His hand. His arm. His beautiful face. He’s so damn sexy. But I don’t. I sit and behave like a nice Jewish boy.
CHAPTER 9
Vincent
Yesterday’s gone. What happened with Kent is over. Put it out of my mind.
Working with him every day may prove harder than I thought. It’s been almost three weeks since we agreed to pour cold water on our shenanigans. Friends only. Professionalism and all that jazz.
