Cuff Me(16)

“Everyone, see, is happy for me, but you seem… pissed,” she pressed.

It bothered her. She didn’t need Vincent’s blessing. Didn’t need him to sanction her admittedly whirlwind courtship with Tom. Didn’t need him to beg to be a bridesmaid, but she needed… something.

He held her gaze for several minutes. “Are you happy?”

“Of course,” she said automatically. Of course she was happy. A gorgeous, successful man had approached her in a bar, bought her a drink, and then proceeded to court the hell out of her for the next three months.

No man had ever done that for her. Ever.

Tom Porter was every woman’s dream. He was her dream. Or at least, a version of it.

“You sure about that?” Vincent asked, coming back toward her.

She frowned in confusion. “Sure about what?”

He moved even closer, his gaze locked on hers. “Are you sure that you’re happy?”

He was only a few inches away from her, and for some reason she felt… aware of him. Of his closeness.

She felt the strangest urge to step back from his intensity.

It was just Vincent, she reminded herself.

He was always intense, but this felt different.

“Of course I’m happy,” she said.

“Huh.” He continued to study her.

“What do you mean, huh?” she asked testily.

“Just that twice now you’ve added an ‘of course’ to your statement.”

“What?” She was thoroughly confused now. “What are you even talking about?”

He rocked back on his heels, then forward again. “I’ve asked twice if you’re happy. You’ve responded with ‘of course.’ Twice.”

“So?” she asked, throwing up her arms in exasperation.

“So,” he said, leaning forward and down so they were face-to-face. “Sounds like you’re trying to convince someone.”

He turned and walked away then, heading down the stairs, and if Jill had anything to throw at him—anything at all—she would have.

“Who would I be trying to convince?” she called after him, before jumping into motion and all but running down the stairs after him. “You?”

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, so quickly that she nearly slammed into his back. Vincent’s hands found her arms to steady her, even as she glared at him.

He slowly dropped his hands, letting his arms fall to his sides, and something unreadable passed over his expression as he took a step back.

“Who would I be trying to convince?” she asked again.

His expression was both thoughtful and pitying, and once again, Jill longed for something to hurl at him.

“Poor Henley. Your time out of the field has made your deduction skills rusty,” he said.

“Meaning?” she asked as he turned on his heel and headed toward the kitchen to question the housekeeper.

“Meaning, I don’t think you’re trying to convince me of your happiness,” he said, not turning around. “I think you’re trying to convince you.”





CHAPTER SEVEN


I think you’re trying to convince you.

Jill glared down at her coffee. Vincent was wrong.

He was so wrong.

Jill was happy to be marrying Tom. Super happy. She was…

“Yo, Henley, hurry up.”

Jill glanced up from where she’d been blindly stirring her white mocha for the past three minutes to find her partner scowling—always with the scowling—down at her.

“Easy, Moretti, I’ve been waiting for you. How long does it take to freaking go to the bathroom?”

“There was a line,” he snapped, moving toward the door of Starbucks before she even had a chance to respond.

Jill rolled her eyes and grabbed both her coffee and his, since he apparently expected her to bring it to him.

It would serve the jerk right if she just dropped it in the trash as she walked out the door, but then, if Jill were being totally fair, she’d have to admit that he’d carried her coffee plenty of times when she’d zoned out.

He turned around once outside the coffee shop, his eyes immediately going for his cup as she followed him.

“Thanks,” he muttered, accepting his boring black coffee. “Totally forgot.”

“It’s been a long one,” she said, taking a sip of her drink.

He looked her over. “How you holding up? First day back on the job and we have a murdered celebrity and nobody even approaching what looks like a viable suspect.”

Jill licked away some of the whipped cream from her upper lip, wondering if she imagined the way Vincent’s gaze had tracked the motion.

“Not going to lie, my feet hurt, my back hurts, and my head hurts…”

He nodded. “And you love it.”

Jill didn’t bother to hide the happy grin, her bad mood evaporating, as it usually did.

“I do love it. I’ve really, really missed this,” she said as they began walking toward their car.

Vincent surprised her then by glancing down at his coffee, then tossing it in a nearby garbage can.

She skidded to a halt. “Did you just throw away coffee? Expensive coffee?”

He lifted a shoulder. “It’s six p.m.”