Page 38 of Never Invite a Vampire to Dinner

Of course he has to go. The man has been stranded at my house since yesterday. He needs dry clothes. His own house probably has storm damage. He has an entire life that does not revolve around whatever Penelope Harrington has decided to do next.

Then he says, “I’ll meet you there.”

The dip reverses itself so quickly I nearly get emotional whiplash.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

His eyes hold mine. “I’ll meet you there, Penny.”

Theo looks between us.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I leave before he can mention the bet.

The waterfront has its power back by the time I get the Salt & Sage open. I start cooking, briskly, for two hundred people who have not asked me to.

By nine thirty there’s a line out the loading door. A hundred and forty egg sandwiches, four gallons of coffee, and a vat of chowder that began life as a wedding order. The wedding is postponed because the groom’s parents currently have a spruce tree in their bedroom. The chowder is not.

Lucy is back from Bangor and has been drafted, along with her camera, which she keeps abandoning on the counter and then going back for.

“You’ve got a whole crew.”

“I’ve got a lot of eggs.”

“Pen. You’ve got a crew.”

She’s right. Eleven people are in my kitchen and I asked none of them. Harriet Coyne is wrapping sandwiches at a speed that frightens me. Wyatt Goodwin, who is seven, has been given the job of Handing Things To People and is taking it seriously enough to be alarming.

“Wyatt, sweetheart. You don’t have to run.”

“I do have to run,” Wyatt says, and runs.

Julian arrives at ten. For approximately four seconds I become no use whatsoever to anybody. He’s changed into dark jeans, boots, and a canvas jacket over a charcoal sweater. Ordinary clothes.

I didn’t know he owned ordinary clothes.

The jeans fit the way his coats fit, and this is somehow worse, because a coat is a costume and I know how to look at a costume. This is only a man who got dressed. A man I kissed last night. Repeatedly.

My stomach does the inconvenient thing again. I set the tray I’m holding down half off the counter. Lucy catches it.

“Nothing,” she says. “I’m saying nothing. I want credit for it, in writing.”

“Shut up,” I hiss just as Julian reaches us.

I’ve seen him look at me across crowded rooms for weeks. I’ve seen his face warm when he finds me. But that warmth is different after last night, and I have the horrible suspicion I’m blushing.

“Miss Harrington.”

“Mr. Volkov.”

Lucy rolls her eyes. I’ll kill her later.