Page 45 of The Defender

“Hey, man.” Mason held out his hand. After a long pause, Vincent shook it. “Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”

“Vincent’s a footballer. He plays for Blackcastle,” I said when Vincent took too long to respond. Seriously, what was wrong with him? He was never antagonistic unless the other person was an asshole, and Mason had been nothing but cordial so far. “You’ve probably seen him on TV. Or in the ads plastered all over the Tube.”

“Ah. That must be it.” Mason shrugged. “Sorry, I’m not a big soccer fan.”

Vincent’s jaw flexed again. I couldn’t tell whether it was because Mason didn’t know who he was or because he’d called football “soccer.”

“Don’t worry about it.” His smile lacked any semblance of warmth. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Mason, but we have to get back to our match.”

I was appalled by his curt dismissal, but Mason took it in stride. “Yeah, of course. And listen…” He rubbed the back of his neck, his sheepish expression returning. “I hope I’m not overstepping here, but are you two, uh, dating?”

“No.” My answer came swiftly, followed by a laugh. “We’re friends. Coworkers, really. And flatmates.Temporaryflatmates.” The words spilled out in a jumble. “We’re a lot of things, but we’re definitely not dating.”

Mason’s smile widened. “Got it. In that case, do you want to exchange numbers? I don’t know anyone in London besides mycoworkers, and they’re all thirty years older than me. It’d be nice to hang out with someone my age.”

I glanced at Vincent, who had moved toward the pool table. The muscles in his neck pulled taut as he racked the balls, his expression indifferent.

“Sure. It’s always good to have another friend in the city.” I returned my attention to Mason, annoyed at myself for even caring what Vincent thought. “Give me your phone.”

I entered my number and texted myself so I had his contact info too. We said goodbye, and he was gone.

Vincent didn’t wait a minute before he pounced. “Leave it to you to make a new friend in five minutes,” he drawled. The edge was still there, softer, but noticeably present.

“You were gone for more than five minutes, and you were so rude to him.” I crossed my arms. “What the hell was that anyway?”

“How was I rude? I shook his hand and said it was nice to meet him.”

“It’s not what you said. It’s the way you said it.”

“Are you policing my tone?”

“Are you being deliberately obtuse?”

Vincent straightened and faced me. His irritation was starkly obvious now, its severity highlighted by his frown and the tense set of his mouth. “Fine. I don’t like him. Happy? There’s something about him that feels off.”

“You met him for two minutes. He was literally so nice.”

“Ted Bundy was nice, and look how that turned out.”

“You’re ridiculous.” I’d reached the end of my patience, but I didn’t feel like arguing, so I switched topics instead. “What took you so long anyway? You could’ve just grabbed some water from the vending machines.”

“I did, but someone recognized me. It turned into a whole thing.” Vincent glanced at the doorway leading to the mainarcade. It was only then that I noticed the group of teenagers watching us and whispering. “We should leave before they call more of their friends over.”

I didn’t argue.

Thankfully, no one ambushed him on our way out, and we rode the entire way home in silence.

We’d been getting along so well, but I should’ve known that wouldn’t last. Bet or no bet, Vincent and I were destined to be at odds.

CHAPTER 14

BROOKLYN

At first glance, it seemed like Vincent and I had reverted to our old ways after the arcade—lighthearted insults and the occasional eye roll peppered with shameless attempts to win the bet. He walked around shirtless so often, he might as well have been allergic to tops; I did yoga smack dab in the middle of the living room, dressed in my best ass-flattering leggings and a sports bra. I buttered him up by joining him on Tuesdays forBake Offwhile he “coincidentally” needed to cook at the exact same time as me every night.

We both knew what the other was doing, so we were on guard. But that didn’t change the fact that something had shifted imperceptibly since our afternoon together. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but it was there, a slight ripple disturbing the glassy surface of our relationship.

It wasn’t the renewed threat from his intruder, though that had definitely put us on edge. The police didn’t think the photo on his car was “actionable,” whatever that meant, so Vincent had doubled security at my flat. More cameras, more locks, and a motion sensor system that scared the crap out of me when Icame home one Saturday afternoon to find a laser pointed at my forehead.