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“So,” he says, “Thursdays and Sundays, you party.” “Yep.” “And on Fridays, you sit behind that front desk reading porn.”
“I’ve never kissed anyone sober,” I admit, my entire face flushing with heat. Vincent’s face softens. “Then practice on me,” he offers. “I’m here. I’m all yours.”
“I’m not hurting you, am I?” I ask. “I’m not very small. But I guess neither are you.” “You’re the perfect size for me,” Vincent says.
“It’s your birthday,” I say, a weak attempt at a joke. “Shouldn’t I be giving you a gift?” “Believe me, Holiday. You are.”
“Did you really memorize one of his poems?” “No.” “Oh.” “I memorized three.” I let out a bark of shocked laughter. “Why would you do that?” He smiles. “Because I knew you’d laugh just like that.”
