“Mere bickering gets annoying after a minute,” I say, watching him as he peers around the room, crosses to my work desk, and gets a pen.
Fluttery, I continue while he takes notes, “Regular enemies also require an amount of ire that either stems from some valid flaw or some kind of misunderstanding. I don’t want a misunderstanding, and I don’t want a fundamental character flaw to be the predominant issue in my story. Youareflirty and unapologetic. You’re a vampire. You need blood to live. You need permission to drink. You use your charms to get it effortlessly. That’s hot. I don’t want my female lead to pretend it isn’t hot, because that’s stupid. My lineage as a saint and my noble cause are what demand we be at odds. I’ve been raised to despise the parasites of this world, and I’ve slaughtered your kind before. Our animosity is, literally, in our blood. Despite that, you’re the first monster I’ve met who doesn’t resort to deranged violence when provoked. Your differences of character prompt my internal conflict amid our banter and battle. With you, it’s not a massacre. It’s a dance. And, at some point after my heart begins to stumble, I’ll start wanting to protect you from me, worried what my saintly blood might do if I give in to my budding feelings and let you drink.” I beam, ecstatic. “Basically, the reason behind my resistance changes, but the resistance remains. Isn’t that wonderful? The slow burn just writes itself! It’s forbidden! It’s impossible! It’s going to be so much fun.” Assuming, of course, blushy boy can pull it off effectively. “Any questions?”
“Just one.” He clicks the pen closed, abandoning both it and the paper at my desk when he steps forward. “Assuming you currently wish ill upon me…” He takes another step, lifts his hands, and frames my cheeks to commandeer my movement. “…what’s stopping you from letting me have a taste now?” His lips—cool and deliberate—graze my shoulder. “If there’s a chanceyour blood is poison, what are you waiting for?” Hekisses. “Taint me. Let my gluttony be my own undoing.”
Holy wheat germ.
Okay. So. Blushy boy is going to dojustfine.
Bleary-eyed and scarlet-cheeked, Dominic peers longingly up until our gazes meet. “Are you using your saintly powers already, darling? I feel weak.”
This is going to bethrilling.
“You have ten minutes,” I say, stepping out of his touch. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
Straightening, he cocks his head back and tucks his fingers in the pockets of his pajama pants, perfectly embodyingeverythingI want his character to be. The coolness in his confidence transports me into the story as he murmurs, “Wouldn’t dream of it,” and I know that ifthiscontinues, I might forget the line between reality and fiction.
Which, truly, is all I have ever wanted to do.
?
Dominic is practically a toy, and I know it’s probably notmorally acceptableto think that, butI’mnot the random stranger popping into a poor girl’s life, declaring love overnight, and submitting myself to her machinations.
As far as I’m concerned, there’s no moral superiority between us.
We’re both sitting pretty on the edge ofnutcase, and that’s just fine with me.
Peering at the outfit I put together for him to try on, Dominic hums and tugs on the collar of the shirt to undo a button. “Wouldn’t a vampire wear darker attire?”
“Your angle is often using your charms to lull victims into a false sense of security. You’d not opt for unwelcomingly dark raiment.”
“Right…” He turns before the mirror, beholding the crisp white dress shirt paired with khaki slacks. “I at least need a shoulder cape, though, don’t I?”
I scan the men’s formal clothing section around us, turn to peer down the white tile floors, keep turning to find women’s clothing in a section a bit farther up, then full circle back to Dominic. “Sir, we are in Belk.”
“I can order one online.” Immediately, he pulls out his phone, tapping away. “Also.” He lifts his free hand and points clear across the store. “I want to see you in that.”
“I have no idea what you’re trying to direct my attention toward.”
He takes a few more moments on his phone, then he drops it back in his pocket and retrieves my hand. Lacing our fingers, he tugs me onto a stretch of white tile.
“Hey,” I protest, “you’re still wearing the clothes you tried on.”
“And?” We fully exit the men’s section while he’s still wearing clothesfromthe men’s section, which feels markedly illegal.
“You’ve abandoned your clothes in the dressing room.” Which is, also, very illegal. “You’ll never see them again.”
“My character is wealthy, calm, cool, and collected. He seems the type to sayI’ll wear this out.”
Okay, I mean.Probably. But still. I drawl, “I’d just love to see how they get the security tag off those slacks while they’re still on your body.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll pop up on the counter for them.” He stops short in front of a mannequin, then proceeds tostrip it. Or, at least, its headwear.
Without warning, he plops the wide, floppy brim of the pale sun hat atop my head. I peek from beneath it at the villain committing so many heinous crimes before me. Truly, causing mayhem in a department store isn’t the flavor of villainy thatI expected, but being the poster boy for a sketchy website ad labeledRetail Workers Hate Himis probably the best I’m going to get in real life.
Warmth grips his cheeks as his eyes heat, and he uses a single finger to delicately tip the hat back by another centimeter. “Precious,” he murmurs—like he means it with every cell in his body.
Gracious.
