Page 29 of PSYCHOlogical

It was a partial lie. I didn’t have beer. I could get some before he showed up, though.

“A beer sounds good,” he said. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

“Alright.”

I texted him my address and then made a mad dash to the liquor store. While I carried everything into the kitchen, the doorbell rang. I left the beer on the countertop and answered the door.

His face was long, and his eyes were tired. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a plain white tee shirt, he could have passed for any other thirty-something that had just returned from a long, exhausting trip.

There was baggage he was carrying beyond what was loaded in the shiny black truck parked behind him, and I knew it.

“Come in,” I said.

He looked me up and down and then stepped inside. “Good evening.”

I turned toward the kitchen. The beer was sitting in broad view. “I didn’t have beer,” I admitted. “So, I ran and got some.”

“You didn’t have to do that for me.” He gave me another quick look over, from head to toe. “Wine would have been fine.”

I wondered if my choice to wear jeans and a sleeveless top was a bad idea. If he saw it as unprofessional. His expectation may have been to have me appear—and act—the same way at home as I did at work. I was hoping for more of a relaxed atmosphere.

“I normally have both,” I said. “Jordan loves beer.”

“Either will work. I just need to relax.”

“She’s my neighbor,” I added. “Jordan, that is.”

I found it surprising that I felt a need to clarify Jordan was female, considering a relationship with Vincent wasn’t what I was after.

It was easy to admit that I was intrigued by him. Talking about the emotions he felt following an assignment was oddly satisfying. Anything more than talking to him, however, wasn’t going to happen.

Spur of the moment sexual encounters were for dreamers and the desperate. Being in a relationship with a client was out of the question. Friendship was all that was left, and it was borderline unethical.

“I didn’t know what you liked as far as beer goes, so I bought Jordan’s favorite and some Budweiser.”

“What’s Jordan’s favorite?” he asked.

“Blue Moon.”

“I’ll have a Budweiser.”

“Not a fan of Blue Moon?”

“Actually, I prefer it,” he responded. “But I don’t want to drink all your friend’s beer and leave her with Budweiser.”

It was a nice gesture. I grinned and reached in the sack. “She wouldn’t care. When she’s on a roll, she’ll drink anything.”

“How often is she on a roll?”

“Every night at some point.” I handed him a Blue Moon and took one for myself. “She loves cutting loose.”

“I don’t know about every night, but it’s nice every now and again.”

“I’ll agree with that.”

I led the way to the living room and sat down on the sofa. After a lengthy survey of the available furniture, Vincent chose the chair across from me. With expressed reluctance, he sat down.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.