“I'm sure,” I whisper. Then I clear my throat and say it once more, louder this time: “I'm sure. But I don't want to pressure you into doing something that makes you uneasy. We hardly know each other—”
“Oh, hardly?” She smiles, letting go of my hand and pressing it over her heart, feigning hurt feelings. “And I thought we were beginning to know each other quite well.”
“We are.” I smile back at her. “I just meant that we haven't known one another for very long, and I understand if you don't trust me enough to—”
“I trust you.”
It's my turn to place a hand over my heart; I feel it beating hard beneath my fingertips, frenzied, and I'm acutely, painfully aware of the fact that it has never beat like this for Mia—or for anyone else. “I trust you, too, Lare.”
“Bon. Well, then...” She opens the refrigerator door and removes a black plastic packet, rectangular and about the size of a pasta box. After one adorably nervous glance back at me over her shoulder, she moves to the countertop, opens the packet and pours its contents into her empty glass. When she turns to face me again, she's holding the glass in her left hand, obscuring most of it with her fingers and palm, but she can't hide it completely. The thick liquid rises up to the top and is dark red, almost black, beneath the kitchen's bright lights.
Lare raises the glass slightly; I notice that her hand is shaking. “Shall we?” she asks, tilting her glass toward mine.
I clink the rim of my iced tea against Lare's cold glass of blood.
“To neighbors,” I say, gazing deeply into her silver-blue eyes.
“To power outages and sugar outages.” A slow smile claims her mouth. “For bringing neighbors together.”
I blush.
Then, in silence, we drink.
Despite my assertions, I admit that I worried watching Lare drink blood might trigger some ancient, genetic flight-or-fight mechanism in my subconscious brain...but it doesn't. As I gulp down my flower-flavored tea, Lare takes sips from her glass—little sips, dainty sips, never spilling a drop. And it isn't creepy or even strange. In fact, after she's drunk half the glass, her shoulders noticeably relax, and her face takes on a rosier hue. I can feel waves of heat emanating from her body as her eyes hold mine, flashing mirror bright.
In her newly fortified aura, my own body feels as if it's on fire. My fingers are flames; my tongue is a lash of lightning. I find myself leaning toward her, face burning... And she leans toward me, too, her lips parted, her teeth speckled with flecks of wet blood.
The tea glass slides out of my grasp and breaks on the kitchen floor with a spectacular, horrifying crash.
“Oh, my God—”
“It's all right. I'll get the broom—”
“No, let me sweep it up, please. And I'll replace your glass. I'm so sorry.”
Smiling gently, Lare places her own glass on the countertop and produces a broom and dustpan from the side of the refrigerator. “Glasses break, Courtney. It's one of life's certainties. Here.” She hands me a long-handled broom and then crouches down on the floor before me. “You sweep, and I'll hold the dustpan. Teamwork, okay?”
“Right. Teamwork,” I mutter, silently cursing my clumsiness as I carefully gather the shards of broken glass with the rough bristles. Helly's snoring (loudly) beside the kitchen table, so at least there's no danger of him stepping on the glass and injuring his gigantic paws.
Well, maybe this is fate's way of staging an intervention to prevent me from cheating on my all-too-human girlfriend with my all-too-alluring vampire neighbor.
Or maybe—and more likely—I'm just a flailing, utterly hopeless disaster.
A hopeless disaster with all kinds of feelings she can't neatly categorize or label. Feelings she's never, ever had to sort through before.
I sigh, frustrated, as Lare empties the dustpan full of glittery glass pieces in the trashcan beneath the sink. “Would you like some more iced tea?” she asks.
“No. No... We shouldn't risk it.” I wave my fingers in the air and smile weakly. “Don't let these butter fingers anywhere near the rest of your glassware. Or bakeware. Or, hell, Tupperware—just to be safe.”
Lare meets my eyes, but she doesn't return my smile; her mouth is a straight, thoughtful line. In three easy strides, she's standing before me, taking the broom from my hand and then holding onto my hand herself, trailing her thumb over the backs of my knuckles. “Courtney,” she says quietly, murmuring my name in her soft French accent, “why do you do that?” Her silver-blue eyes chase after my flitting gaze like glinting stars.
“Do what?” My voice is barely a whisper.
“Insult yourself.” She shakes her head, red waves shifting over her shoulders and brushing lightly against the planes of my cheeks. “You're a successful businesswoman with a wicked sense of humor and a sharp intellect. And you're beautiful. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever met.” Her eyes flash as they bore into mine. “Or, I'm certain, ever will.”
I try to swallow, but my tongue is suddenly four sizes too big, and my throat feels tight and constricted. My heart, on the other hand, is having no difficulty performing its assigned functions—albeit at four times the speed of light. For a moment, I entertain serious concerns that it might thump itself right out of my chest.
“Lare,” I say, and then I pause, speechless, and shake my head.
“It's an honor to know you, Courtney. I only wish you cherished yourself as much as other people cherish you. It's a lesson I've had to learn myself, and it was difficult...but well worth the effort.”
Cherish. I think about that word, think about it for, perhaps, the very first time, and I grow still. It's a word you don't often hear outside of wedding ceremonies and that old Madonna song. And now, considering it, cherish feels like the word I've been searching for my entire life, the word I've always wanted to put into action in my relationships: to cherish; to be cherished...
Do I cherish Mia? Does she cherish me? I can't answer either question positively without hesitation, and that makes my stomach flutter with a sickening, winged dread.
I bite my lip as I inhale deeply. “Well,” I say, breathing out, “self-esteem baggage aside...it's an honor to know you, too, Lare. Thank you for being so”—I chuckle, amused by the inadequacy of the word—“neighborly. I haven't really gotten to know my neighbors, despite living here for years. So it's nice to...”
She watches me expectantly, a faint smile shadowing her lips.
“It's nice to have a friend next door,” I say, my gaze moving again to the tattoo on her wrist.
For a moment, Lare holds her tongue, silent, as her thumb makes semicircles on the back of my hand. Then she sighs lightly. “Oui. It's a comfort for me, too, knowing you're so close. A strange comfort. I've been alone for most of my life.”
I meet her sad, hooded stare.
“So, merci,” she says, mouth slanting up slightly on one side, “for giving the new vampire on the block the benefit of the doubt.” Her sexy smile gives way to parted lips and flashing eyes. “That means a lot to me, Courtney.” She licks her lips, holding my gaze. Her own gaze glitters with something private, unspoken. “Much more than you might think.”
She weaves her fingers with mine.
I take a step closer.
And a piercing whine breaks the tension between us—as Lare breaks physical contact with me. “I'm sorry. That's my pager.”
“People still have pagers?”
She smiles at me over her shoulder as she jogs into the entryway; when she returns, she's cradling a small white device in her hand. It's making a high-pitched wail, and she clicks a button on it as she skims the small screen, mouth tensing into a straight line.
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
“No. No, it isn't. I...I have to go.” She looks up at me and meets my gaze, but she isn't really seeing me: her eyes are faraway, elsewhere. “I'm sorry, Courtney.” She blinks—once, twice—and then she's back again, staring into me, her mouth curved in a
soft, regretful half-smile. “There's a...situation at work. I'm afraid I'm needed there. I had hoped we could...”
I wait for her to finish her sentence, but she only shakes her head, placing a hand to her brow.
“Oh, before you go—here.” Picking up a tin painted with yellow roses from the countertop, Lare removes the lid and chooses something from the inside; then she smiles at me and presses that something into my hand. “Another new recipe. Let me know what you think of it, all right?”
I look at the plastic-bagged tea packet in my hand. It has a neat label affixed to it, reading Colette.
“I just completed the recipe yesterday—inspired by your lovely cat.”
Grinning, I tuck the tea packet into my shorts pocket. “Thanks. I'll drink it at work tomorrow. It'll give me something to look forward to.”
“Good...” Lare glances at her beeper again and sighs. “I look forward to seeing more of you. Unfortunately, that's impossible tonight.” She rakes her free hand through her red hair and sighs again, deeply. “So I'll have to bid you au revoir. Enjoy your cake, Courtney.”
“What?” I shake my head, lost in Lare's silver-blue eyes. “Oh... Right. My cake. Yeah. Thanks again for the sugar.” I pick up the canister, cradling it awkwardly in my arms.
Lare steps toward me and raises her hand; with slow, liquid movements, she brushes a strand of hair from my face, leaving the back of her hand against my cheek. “I bought it for you. I just didn't know that at the time.” Her mouth slides into a small, apologetic smile. “Sometimes fate is a wonderful thing. And sometimes...” She takes her hand from my cheek and regards the device in her palm bleakly. “Sometimes it breaks your heart.”
“I'm sorry. Do you need my help with anything? I could, I don't know, dogsit Van Helsing for you or—”
“Thanks, but I'll be back in a couple of hours. Helly the hellhound ought to be able to fend for himself until then,” she says, with a hint of her usual good humor.
“Well, I hope everything works out. I'm...sorry that you have to deal with this.” I step out of the kitchen and through the living room, toward the front door. “If I get any leads on that book, I'll give you a call.”
“Merci. Good night, Courtney.”
“Good night, Lare.” I open the door, and the heat wafts in, damp and suffocating.
I walk down the sidewalk and onto the flagstones leading to my own house, and then, skin prickling, I glance over to my alluring neighbor's property. Lare is standing in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, watching me; a complicated expression flits over her face. As I wave self-consciously, she smiles; then she backs into her house, shutting the door with a soft click.
After a lot of indecision, I end up baking a double-layer vanilla cake with raspberry filling and chocolate ganache, and I'm keenly aware with every bite of Lare's comment about the sugar: I bought it for you. I just didn't know that at the time. I've never known anyone who spoke so often and so naturally about woo-woo things like fate, destiny, kismet... And I've never put any credence in fate myself, because, if fate really is a force in my life, it's always been skewed towards the blah rather than the beautiful.
But as I watch When Night is Falling for the hundredth time and devour my decadent dessert with its sweet, borrowed sugar, I can't help but wonder if destiny might have something beautiful in store for me, after all.
Chapter Five: Definitely Not a Lunch Date
It’s not until the following morning, when I’m polishing off an almond croissant and skimming email messages at the shop, that I realize I failed to tell Lare about the lead I received on her book search. Yesterday evening was...intense, but I should have shared the fact that my contact tracked down a book containing information on Maximinus the moment Lare jogged up to my car.
The thing is...that ridiculously rare and expensive book was the farthest thought from my mind when my hot vampire neighbor and her dog materialized outside of my window. I wasn’t doing much thinking at all, frankly. And in the glaring light of day, with an email from Mia glaring at me from my inbox—the subject lines reads, You, me, naked: soon?--I feel wretched, sick with guilt. My gut is tangled up in knots. I almost regret eating that rich, sweet croissant for breakfast.
Almost.
I lick my fingers appreciatively, one by one.
Then I sigh and bang my skull on the counter before cradling my head on my arms.
Okay, time for a cold, hard fact, Courtney: it doesn’t matter that Mia and I have been drifting apart lately. It doesn't even matter that she's got some weird thing for Drew Yarrow, or that she's become a hate sign-carrying, honorary member of SANG. As of right now, Mia and I are still in a relationship, still exclusive, committed to each other...and that means something to me. Something big.
But, as much as I cringe to admit it, there’s a small part inside of me that...doesn’t feel guilty about the time I've spent with Lare, or the sexy thoughts I've had about Lare. A small, strange, and shockingly uninhibited part inside of me that is kind of, sort of wishing Lare had never gotten that mysterious and urgent page from GLT. Because if she hadn’t gotten the page... Well, after the intimate experience she and I shared—drinking together, trusting together, mortifying broken-glass incident aside—it felt wrong to sever our connection so abruptly. If she hadn't been summoned away, things might have progressed, deepened between us, and then...
And then what? In frustration, I sit up and close my laptop with a click. My droopy eyes fall to my cell phone, lying face-down in front of me on top of a pile of unopened mail. Unopened bills. Bills I can't quite afford to pay.
The knots in my stomach tighten.
Right.
Back to business, boss.
I sigh and pick up the phone gingerly, as if it might bare teeth and bite. It doesn't, but my hand is, to my dismay, shaking as I unlock the screen and draw Lare's business card out of a drawer. I suck in a deep breath and punch in the first few digits of Lare's number—and then my phone freezes up. And starts ringing. Or, rather, starts playing my ringtone, the theme song from Disney's Beauty and the Beast. It's been one of my favorite movies for years. My teenage self vaguely appreciated the fairy tale romance, I guess, but it was the sight of Belle's majestic library made my bibliophile heart skip a beat.
Now my eyes widen as I stare at the phone in my hand. The number flashing on the screen is Lare's, the same number I'd been in the process of entering myself.
That's...weird.
Dazed, I answer the phone, only dimly aware of my actions. “Hello?” I try to keep my voice even, calm and professional, but it comes out husky and hoarse, breaking on the lo. I clear my throat.
“Courtney? It’s Lare,” she tells me, her voice warm and soft, sensual and low. I can tell she’s smiling, and a blush creeps over my body, turning my skin beet red from the chest up. I lean on the counter hard—my knees are, all of the sudden, too weak to support my weight—and try not to picture her mouth forming my name. Instead, I think of the tea that she poured me last night, its floral scent mingling with Lare's own lily-sweet perfume. I think about drinking with her. I think about how she brushed her fingernails over my forearm as she examined my wound...
Uh, not helping.
Earth to Courtney.
“Hi, Lare,” I say, too loudly and too brightly, after I realize that she's been waiting several seconds for me to reply. I slog through the awkward pause with a grimace. “It’s funny that you called, actually. I was just about to dial you.” I rake a hand back through my hair. My palms are sweaty, and my heart is beating so fast that I find myself taking small, quick breaths to compensate. It's kind of unsettling.
I mean, I've read about characters getting all flustered over their “one true love,” but I thought that was just literary technique, some sort of romantic, poetic exaggeration. Women used to swoon all of the time, according to period novels, but I've never seen anybody—female or otherwise—swoon in my entire life.
The surreal thing is...I kind of feel li
ke I'm in danger of swooning every time I'm in Lare's company. Or even, apparently, just talking to her on the phone.
“You were really about to call me?”
“Yeah.”
“Well...” She's still smiling; I can tell by the tone of her voice. But she sounds tired, too. Maybe she had a late night after we parted ways. “You must have heard me thinking about you, then. I suspect you're a little bit psychic, Courtney Banks,” she teases.
In truth, I'm feeling a little bit psycho, but I laugh noncommittally. “I do have this uncanny sixth sense for always going to the grocery store when it's so crowded that there aren't any shopping carts left. Kind of a superpower, I guess.”
Her soft chuckle makes my stomach somersault. “Look,” she says, in a velvet tone, “I wanted to apologize for last night. It was terribly rude of me to just—”
“No, please don't worry about it.” I lick my lips and draw in a deep breath, weighing my next words. “I was just sorry that we had to cut our, um...teatime...short.” I press the phone harder against my cheek as my eyes flit up toward the ceiling, fixing on a water stain that I hadn't noticed before. Lovely.
“I was sorry, too,” Lare murmurs. “Sincerely sorry.”
I swallow, then bite my lip. “So... Was everything all right? I mean, at GLT?”
“Well...” She's silent for a long moment; when she speaks at last, her voice is tight. “Yes. And no. But that’s not important right now.” Her tone brightens, but I can still hear the strain beneath it. “I told myself that the moment I was free, I would call you and apologize. And—more importantly—offer reparations. Will you join me for lunch, Courtney, to make up for yesterday?”
Lunch? My eyes widen, and I stand very still. In one of the aisles of the currently customer-less bookstore, I can hear David dusting the shelves, whistling a tune I’ve never heard before. Its minor notes are haunting, eerie, and repetitive, like a witch hunter's anthem—or a vampire's lament.
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