Night Shift

02.

I'M HUDDLED IN an oversized cardigan with half of my hair pulled up in a messy knot and a romance novel in my hands. It goes without saying that I'm in no way prepared, mentally or physically, to face the most notorious member of Clement University's beloved basketball team. Vincent Knight is fearsome. He looks far more like the ex-mafia romantic lead in my novel than a college athlete—except, maybe, for the sling supporting his left arm and the bulky brace wrapped around his wrist.

"Hi," I blurt. "Can I help you?"

A muscle in Vincent's jaw ticks. His right hand—the one not cradled in a sling—is clenched so tight around his student ID it must be carving into his palm.

"I need some nineteenth-century British poetry."

The timber of his voice, lowered to a library-appropriate volume, cuts through the quiet and hits me square in the chest. I suppress a shiver.

"Sure. That'll be on the second floor. If you take a right when you get out of the elevator and follow the signs, it's all the way back by the—"

Vincent cuts me off. "Can you give me any specific books?"

It's a totally standard request. The tinge of annoyance dripping from the words is nothing new, either. It pales in comparison to what I see during finals, when a combination of sleep deprivation and desperation brings out the worst in humanity. There's really no reason that one brooding basketball player should make me feel like I'm melting with embarrassment in my seat because he needs a reading recommendation.

Abruptly, I remember the romance novel in my hands.

My face burns as I roll my chair forward and shut the book, pressing it cover-down into my lap and praying that Vincent Knight can't read upside down.

"Our overnight librarian is actually out right now," I tell him in my most polite customer service voice. "Do you want to wait for her to get back, or—"

"Are you not qualified?"

My mouth shuts abruptly at his curt tone. Vincent Knight must be used to getting what he wants when he whips out the condescending remarks and the steely glare I've only ever seen him use on the court. I'll admit that I'm intimidated—by the size of him, by the weight of who he is and how everyone at Clement knows his name, by the cool intelligence glinting in his dark eyes—but I'm not about to let him push me around.

"I'm in the honors English program. If anything, I'm overqualified."

"Great," Vincent says, unmoved. "So lead the way."

"Unfortunately, leaving this desk to help cranky pricks with their homework isn't in my job description."

Vincent's eyebrows shoot up with surprise. He cuts a glance at the tables in the atrium, where two or three of the late-night studiers have looked up from their laptops and are staring at the star of our school's basketball team like this is the last place in the world they expect to see him on a Friday night. Which leads me to wonder why, exactly, he's here with an arm in a sling and a pressing need for British poetry. Especially since the rest of his team is supposedly throwing a forbidden party at the basketball house.

Vincent turns to face me again and presses his lips together, chastened.

"Do you think you could make an exception for someone who's only got one good arm and is having a really shitty night?"

It's a small surrender of his pride, but he's clearly not used to having to ask for help or apologize for his surliness. But Vincent looks, for a moment, like he knows he's being an asshole and wishes he could stop. Something about that softens the edge on my anger.

We stare each other down. I'm the one who cracks.

"Fine," I say begrudgingly. "I guess I'll just... come with you, then."

It'll only be five minutes of my life, and it's not like I have much else to do besides reading Lorenzo take Natalie up against an elevator wall. I slide The Mafia's Princess facedown onto the desk and flip up the little sign that tells people I'll be back in fifteen minutes.

It's not until I stand up from my chair that I realize just how enormous Vincent is. It makes sense that he's tall—he's a Division I basketball player, after all—but I'm nearly five foot eleven, so it's not often that I'm towered over. It throws me off. I snatch my lanyard, keys clanking against my water bottle in my haste, and loop the strap tight around my fist as I march around the desk and brush past Vincent. I catch the scent of laundry detergent and something warm and spiced—and then I absolutely do not think about how good he smells, or how small he makes me feel, or how much I like it.

I lead the way to the stairs. They're on the far side of the atrium, but considering I was just a few paragraphs from reading about passionate sex in elevators, I'd rather not trap myself in one with Vincent. He trails behind me as we climb to the second floor and plunge into the maze of books, weaving through the stacks like animals on the hunt. I've always been a fast walker. Harper and Nina bitch and moan about it when they fall behind, but Vincent—with his long strides—keeps up without complaint.

He might have his head stuck in his ass, but at least he's not slow.

The British literature is tucked deep in a corner. One of the florescents overhead has burned out, leaving this nook of the library dim and oddly intimate. If anyone were to go looking for a private place on campus to make out, this would be the best spot. Not that Vincent and I are going to make out.

Jesus Christ, I scold. Pull yourself together.

This is what I get for reading smut on the job.

"Here we go," I huff. "British poetry. It's all sort of thrown together, but I can help you pick out some from the century you need, since you seem incapable of Googling it yourself."

Vincent rolls his eyes. "Just hand me whatever."

I tilt my head to the side and scan the spines on the shelf, reading off the titles and authors under my breath. Nineteenth century British poetry is fairly broad, as far as requests go. I'll need some more specific parameters if we're going to hurry this up so I can get back to my book.

"What class is this for?"

"I'm taking a GE on classic British literature," Vincent says. "We're supposed to analyze a poem by Monday. The professor didn't specify what kind."

So, no pressing midnight deadline, but he's still here instead of at the party with the rest of his team. Why couldn't he wait until tomorrow morning and just come in with a hangover, like every other undergrad at Clement?

I regard Vincent carefully, my eyes dancing over his disheveled hair and the slight shadows beneath his dark eyes. He looks like he could use eight hours of sleep and a good laugh. Maybe he's more anxious about this paper than he wants to let on. Or maybe the sling around his arm and impending start of the basketball season is to blame for his sour attitude. If I had my phone on me, I could send a covert text to Harper and Nina to see if they've got their hands on any intel.

But my phone is downstairs, and Vincent is standing next to me, tall and brooding and visibly agitated as he glares at the books surrounding us.

I stifle a sigh. One problem at a time.