Mr. Sin: Book One of the Sin Series

“Can we watch a movie?” Annie asks her dad, blinking her eyes innocently.

Vincent glances at the clock. “Pick a TV show instead. It’s getting late.”

Annie huffs but still agrees and I watch her walk to the living area where she drops into one of the large armchairs.

Dinner with Vincent and his family was so much more wonderful than I imagined it could be. Clearly Marie knew the story behind why I was there, and she did a great job of carrying the conversation. She took her leave after dinner, but – seeing the three of them together – I felt like I got a view of Vincent’s home life for the past 11 years. And I understand now, more than ever, why he kept his family so secret. Why he did his best to keep people, women, hook-ups, away from his home. Away from his daughter.

And even though he can’t exactly verbalize how he feels about me, I’m starting to realize that he really does care. He’s been pretty shitty at showing it, but the fact that he’s letting me see this side of him says a lot. Perhaps it’s possible, maybe, that he cares about me as much as I care about him.

Vincent’s warm palm on my back has my eyes refocusing on the room in front of me. “Come watch some ridiculous TV with us. It’ll help you unwind.”

I nod.

I was pretty quiet throughout our meal, and Annie gave me more than one sideways glance. So if I hid away in Vincent’s room it would only call more attention to my morose mood.

With Annie sprawled out in one of the armchairs, I claim one corner of the couch. The TV is already on, the opening scene of a sitcom I don’t recognize playing on the screen.

Leaning my head on the armrest, I watch the show with one ear listening to Vincent as he walks around the apartment, turning off most of the lights. The sound of ice striking glass has my mind wandering to the first time I was here. The pink tennis shoes. The realization that Vincent was so much more than I originally thought. The bedroom. The icy cold kisses. The night spent calling out his name.

“Share with me.” Vincent’s voice warns me of his presence a moment before I feel the couch dip beside me.

He’s left no space between us. And as I sit up to take the glass from his hands, our sides press into each other. Thankfully, he’s added something that tastes like ginger ale to the alcohol this time. I take a second sip. Then a third. Vincent uses his arm around me to guide my head onto his shoulder before he takes the glass back, downing the rest of the drink.

The press of Vincent’s lips to my temple is the last thing I feel before I fall asleep.