Page 6 of You, Again
“Should I call him Vinnie or Mr. Kiminski?”
“Go with your gut, Er. Gotta run.” I pasted a smile on my face and hooked my thumb toward the parking lot. “See ya.”
The afternoon sun felt like a welcoming warm bath after the chill inside the rink. Goose bumps melted away as I plucked my sunglasses from my shirt and slipped them onto my nose. I dug my keys from my pocket, frowning at the Jeep parked too close to me—so close I’d have to hop in through the passenger side and heave my ass behind the wheel.
What the fuck?
The lot wasn’t full. It was midweek in June, not a game day in January.
I pointed my fob, unlocking my truck as I studied the Jeep’s license plate for clues to the owner’s identity. I was more focused on getting the hell outta there than finding the asshole responsible, though. This wasn’t going to be pretty, but I was flexible. A little shimmying would do the trick. And hopefully, I wouldn’t tweak my knee in the process.
“Damn, Nolan. Someone did you dirty,” a deep voice drawled behind me.
I spun on my heels, my breath catching in my throat as I came face-to-face with Vin Kiminski for the first time in…years.
“Vinnie.”
I couldn’t help noticing that he was bigger than I remembered. There was morehim…all over. He was taller, stronger, more fit. His shoulders were broader, his torso was thicker, and his tattooed biceps were ginormous. No kidding. His muscles challenged the integrity of his T-shirt in every way possible without looking ridiculous.
He was hotter too.
I’d known Vin my whole life. He’d been the cool kid on the block to my brother’s affable boy next door. Guys had wanted to hang out with Vinnie and every girl I knew used to have a crush on him. Okay, fine…once upon a time, I’d had a crush on him too. A big one.
I hadn’t known what to call it back then. That weird, fluttery feeling in my chest, a loss of hearing, and a curious stomachache seemed like the kind of symptoms I should have seen a doctor about, but being around him felt good too. Uplifting…like walking on a cloud and touching moonbeams with your fingertips.
How embarrassing.
That crush lasted longer than I’d ever admit to anyone…ever. A testament to my younger, naïve self. If my parents had noticed, they’d probably assumed I had a wicked case of hero worship. I’d adored my big brother and it made sense to extend those feelings to his best friend.
Yeah, that wasn’t it. It had taken me a while longer to figure out that I was gay. Back then I hadn’t even known what that word meant. I’d just known that whatever I felt was…different.
Vinnie had confused and confounded me. He always would.
But Ronnie was right. I had to let that old shit go and aim for some form of neutrality. Total ambivalence was the ultimate goal, though even I knew that was a stretch.
He was still insanely good-looking with sharp hazel eyes, a strong scruffy jaw, and a slightly crooked nose from the time he’d gotten into a fight with a goalie during playoffs his junior year of high school. His longish dark hair curled at his ears and brushed his collar, giving him a deceptively angelic look. There was nothing innocent about this man, though. He was a rakish, crude, unpolished barbarian…who just happened to have a godlike bod.
Whatever. At thirty-five, I wasn’t so easily swayed by washboard abs and a cocky smile. My memory was longer too. I knew Vinnie Kiminski, and I didn’t like him.
And I sure as fuck didn’t trust him. I’d bet my next paycheck that was his Jeep blocking my door.
“Good to see you, man. How’s it goin’?” he asked.
“Okay.” I gestured toward my truck. “Is that you?”
He pulled his Ray-Bans off, narrowing his eyes as he surveyed the renegade parking situation. “Me? I was a valet at Maxim’s the summer I learned how to drive.”
“So?”
“You know Maxim. That old man was a fucking tyrant. He made us move any car he thought was too close to another. On my first night, they were hosting the Phillipses’ wedding and for whatever reason, everyone had a van. Maxim wanted them all in that back lot behind the Christmas tree farm. I can’t tell you how many times he drove after us on his golf cart, pulling what was left of his hair outta his skull, screaming, ‘Move that van, move that van!’”
My lips twitched without my permission. “Maxim thought he was running a fine-dining establishment.”
“Any restaurant rockin’ wood chips on the floor, a broken jukebox, and a cigarette machine from the seventies has serious delusions of grandeur,” Vinnie scoffed.
“True.”
He grinned, hooking his glasses in his shirt collar, momentarily exposing a hint of chest hair. “So…other than a minor parking woe, how’s life?”